The Dumbest Thing
by Frankincense Pontipee
Summary: Love means never having to say you're sorry. That is, if you haven't mortally offended her. Or you haven't assumed too much about him. Or, in fact, if you're in the middle of a presidential nominee campaign, and you're running primarily on caffeine.
1. Part I: Damn Candidates

'**Love means never having to say you're sorry' is the dumbest thing I ever heard**

A modern _Pride and Prejudice _with a swirl of _The West Wing_ and a dash of _What's Up Doc?_

**If you are midway through watching **_**The West Wing**_** and do not want to know what happens, stop reading, finish watching it, then come back. I would hate to spoil anything for you. For everyone else, not having watched **_**The West Wing**_** shouldn't be a handicap. However, just in case you would like to know exactly who these people are, here is a brief run down. Liberties have been taken with the eight years between the end of President Bartlet, and the end of President Santos. My word is not law. The word of Aaron Sorkin, Peter Bogdanovich and Jane Austen, however, is.**

* * *

**Dramatis Personae:**

**Matthew Santos: **President of the United States of America.

**Josiah "Jed" Bartlet: **the previous President, under whom worked:

**Joshua Lyman: **Deputy Chief of Staff to Bartlet, Campaign Manager for Santos, now Chief of Staff for Santos.

**Donna Moss Lyman: **Josh's PA, worked on Santos campaign, Chief of Staff to Helen Santos, married to Josh Lyman.

**Sam Seaborn: **Deputy Communications Director to Bartlet, ran for office in CA, Director of Communications for Santos, was Democratic Presidential Nominee.

**Ainsley Hayes: **Associate White House Counsel for Bartlet. White House Counsel under Santos, married to Sam Seaborn.

**Toby Ziegler: **Director of Communications for Bartlet, disgraced and fired, now teaching at Columbia University.

**Claudia Jean "C.J." Cregg: **White House Press Secretary, promoted to Chief of Staff following retirement of **Leo McGarry.**

**Will Bailey: **Deputy Communications Director, Chief of Staff to vice-president **Bob Russell,** campaign manager for Russell, then promoted to Director of Communications following firing of Ziegler.

* * *

**PART I**

**Damn Candidates**

The elevator doors ding open, and Will no more than starts to move forward when he stops, and steps back into the car, making room for Charlie to amble in beside him.

"Where are you going?"

Charlie looks up, mid way through a yawn, both hands clasped behind his neck. "Just for a walk." He grins ruefully. "Every joint has seized while sitting at that desk."

Will nods, and leans back against the wall, pulling out his Blackberry. "I'll come too."

"You really don't have to. I don't need baby-sitting."

Will glances up. "I know," he says, slightly surprised. "I only meant…I needed to talk to you about something anyway." He gestures generally to the panel of buttons. "Going anywhere specifically?"

Charlie shrugs, and punches the 'B' before leaning back against the wall. "What did you need to talk to me about?"

Will, midway through frowning at a message, looks up, momentarily confused. "What? Oh…" he continues, shoves his Blackberry in a pocket, and straightens up. "Jaime gave me the drafts for the _Democrats Together_ speech."

"Oh? Any good?"

The airy interest proves to Will that his suspicions were correct.

"Yes," he says, pulling out a sheaf of papers from under his arm. "Remarkably so." He studies the pages, rifling through them as he talks. "I don't think I've seen writing this good since, I don't know…" He looks up. "The State of the Union?"

If there was ever any doubt about Charlie's political abilities, the fact that his face remains impassive proves his worth.

"Really?"

"Charles." Will's voice is wavering between amusement and threat.

"Fine." Charlie moves against the back wall of the elevator as it stops several floors short of their destination. Two women walk in, both on phones, and Charlie lowers his voice. "But you know very well that they are dismal."

Will rubs his forehead. "Who are we talking about?"

"Those idiots on the communications team." It's the nearest that Will has seen Charlie get to angry in a long time. "I mean," he continues, slightly calmer, "you've got a great team here Will. Jaime and Matt and Viv and Lou and, you know…" He looks a little resigned. "Even Caroline. They're the best, and I have no idea why they're working for me, but Will," he continues, jaw set, "the communications, the speeches, even some of the press releases? They're not good."

One of the women glance up at them, and smiles slightly, still on the phone. Charlie calms for a second, and returns it. Will ignores her.

"They'll get better. The press releases certainly are."

The doors open again, and the women walk out, still on phones. Will starts to walk, while Charlie remains leaning against the wall.

"Really?"

Will sighs. "Yes. I mean, I know the early few were dire, but that was before Caroline came on board, and she really has whipped them into shape."

"Yeah, I guess…"

"But you really can't be writing all your own speeches. Not now."

Charlie pushes off the wall, and begins to walk, slowly, Will keeping pace beside him.

"Who else will?"

"You have a whole staff."

Charlie stops, rounds on Will. "Are you not listening to me? They're dreadful! Did you never hear Barker talk?"

"This is different."

"No Will, it's not!" He leans defeated against a wall. "We've both always said that Barker just couldn't be that dumb. He _couldn't,_" he adds, certain. "And yet? He sounded like an idiot in every single speech, every single time he stood up."

Will rubs his forehead again. "It's not the same. They aren't _that_ bad. Look, I'll admit, that one time in Boston was bad, but they've been getting better and recently…" He pauses and sighs. "Well, recently you've probably been writing them yourself."

Charlie lets out a great sigh in return, and starts to walk again. "Yeah, well, it's the only way."

Together they push open the double doors to the restaurant, open at all hours whilst the building is so busy. The room is gloomy, most of the light coming from spotlights over the counters and coffee makers. A few people sit at one table, one woman at another, on the phone. Will automatically walks towards the coffee maker, and pours himself one. He offers it to Charlie, but is turned down with a wave of the hand. Will slumps into a chair, papers and pens, his Blackberry, his two phones all spilling out across the tables surface. Charlie remains standing, leaning against the counter.

"Look," he begins. "I know it's dumb, and I know I'm writing stuff that I could farm out to an eighth grader. I _know _that Will," he adds, "but I can't be reading speeches which aren't as good as _I_ could write. I look at the stuff they send up to you, and I try to reconcile myself to it. I know I can't do this permanently. But Will," he implores, sitting down. "I'm better than this. Those two months in the West Wing, I was surrounded by great writers."

Will sips his coffee, and raises an eyebrow. "Wasn't the fact that there were no great writers the reason they drafted you in?"

Charlie laughs. "Well, maybe, but only briefly. You could feel them though. The history, that weighty history of great words and thoughts all coming from there." He shakes his head. "It felt like I could write anything. Like I could have just a fraction of the greatness of the ones who came before." He shrugs. "And now? Where's my Toby Zeigler? Where's my Sam Seaborn?"

"Will Bailey," mutters Will, rubbing his neck, trying to ease out a few kinks before going back to his office.

"Yes! Where's my Will Bailey? In fact," he continues, "where are they anyway? Any of them out of work?"

Will raises an incredulous eyebrow. "You want to get, what, Toby, Will and Sam as your writing staff?"

Charlie grins. "Wouldn't that be amazing?"

Will smiles very slightly. "Well, Will's off representing the Oregon 4th, anyone that Toby would respect enough to work for he wouldn't want to bring down by association, and you know Sam's out. That's the only reason why there's any point in campaigning. He would have had every single Democrat behind him, with Jed Bartlet front and centre."

"And Matt Santos just behind…" Charlie sighs, and slumps. "Is there any word on what 'personal matter' caused Sam to drop out?"

Will chews his lip for a second. "Josh Lyman blurted it out this morning. His wife lost a baby. Well, he and his wife…"

Charlie stills. "Really? That's awful. Should I send something or do…?"

Will shakes his head slowly. "I don't think so. He asked for privacy and has deliberately not said anything. The only reason I know is that Josh had a bit of a moment."

"Probably starting to realise that he's got to actually, you know, have a life after the White House." Charlie grins, and links his hands behind his neck, stretching. "So I have no writing team."

"I'll look into it."

"And we'll have to fire our present writers."

"I'll look into that too. It's not like there's no jobs available around here right now for political writers."

"There aren't for the dreadful ones."

Will smiles a little. "I'll send them Bob Russell's way. He won't be any the wiser."

Charlie snorts and stands up. Draining his coffee, Will gathers his things, shoving all he can in his pockets, the rest in his arms, and also stands. "Going back upstairs?" he asks, beginning to walk.

Charlie smiles mysteriously, and takes the pages, stapled together, from Will's pile labelled '_Democrats Together_' with _talk to C_ scrawled across the top. "It's not quite right yet. I want another go." He drops it on the table, and ambles towards the coffee machine, pulling out a pen.

"Charles," says Will, warningly.

Charlie turns and grins. "The sooner you find me a Ziegler, the sooner I'll stop writing."

Will sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, and then turns and walks out. Charlie smiles to himself, and it broadens as he helps a beautiful blonde to a coffee. "You all right?" he asks, noting her wet eyes.

She smiles and Charlie catches his breath. "I'm fine," she says. "Just a little home sick."

Charlie gestures to the table. "Sit with me?" he asks. And she does.

* * *

_Earlier that day_

"Sorry! I'm so sorry. You haven't been waiting long?"

Josh Lyman glances up from the paper and smiles. "No. Anyway, it gives me a chance to read the paper. Remarkable," he adds "how I just don't have time for it any more."

Will drops into the chair opposite. "I'd imagine that making the news leaves little time for reading it."

Josh laughs, and hands Will a menu as the waitress comes over. "Black coffee and half a grapefruit please," he says. "Have you decided?"

Will rubs a hand over his face. "Coffee and some kind of Danish? One with lots of icing and…" He half smiles. "A decent sugar injection. Thank you," he adds as the waitress scribbles down their order and turns to leave. Will turns to Josh. "So. Half a grapefruit?"

Josh groans, good naturedly. "Yeah, well I'm not as young as I once was, as my wife continually reminds me. She'd rather I didn't end up in an early grave, and so curtails the sugar intake."

"And you conform even when she's not here?"

Josh grins. "Happy to be whipped," he says, a rueful glance at a plate of pancakes and syrup as they pass. "Anyway, I steal food off of my daughter's plate." He grins again and shakes his head. "And this is what I have become."

Will smiles. "I don't know. The prospect of family and the little things…they seem quite attractive at five AM."

Josh laughs. "At which time this morning I had my eighteen month old daughter, screaming with an ear infection, and was simultaneously trying to find my extensive notes on the federal budget." He sighs, and gratefully accepts his breakfast. "Again," he says. "Happy to be whipped." His face falls. "It falls into perspective when things like Sam, you know?"

Will takes a sip of his coffee, and shakes his head slowly. "I don't actually. It has all been kept very quiet and…"

Josh runs a hand across his face. "Oh, damn. Well…" He pauses. "Sorry, Will. I forget you're not Toby or Sam or…" He pauses again, then, in an undertone, "Ainsley lost a baby. Far on too. They had to take her in and…" He sighs, making a helpless gesture with his hands. "Sam dropped out of the running to be with her."

Will takes a breath. "That's awful. So… I'm guessing he doesn't want to be contacted."

"No," says Josh slowly. "He wants privacy right now."

"Of course." He sighs, breakfast forgotten. "What a hideous decision to have to make."

Josh smiles slightly. "It's not at all. In that moment it's the easiest decision in the world. It's in the quiet afterwards that you wonder if it was right." He shrugs. "I know when Donna was hurt there was nothing else, no where else I could have been." He smiles. "When it comes to down to the wire, you discover where you heart is."

"Yeah," says Will, quietly, picking at the edges of his Danish.

Josh sits up straighter, and starts into his grapefruit. "So," he says, "how's the campaign going?"

The previous subject now pushed aside, Will takes a second, then says "I'd reckon you know as well as I do."

Josh laughs. "Maybe, although I don't know how it is from inside the campaign. It's looking good though."

Will shrugs. "It feels good. We're working hard. Harder than ever, but it's good. Bingley's really excited and that seems to be coming out. And you know, everyone's buzzing about how young he is and what a good successor for change and…" He shrugs again, a little indifferent.

Josh pauses, mid way through dissecting his food. "You don't agree?"

Will starts picking again at his breakfast, unwinding the pastry. "Not necessarily. I just think maybe this should be more than it is. No one talks about issues. No one wants to debate. It's all character and whether he's too young and inexperienced or whether he'll bring new life to the party."

Josh eats the last few pieces, pushes his now empty grapefruit skin aside, and takes a sip of coffee. "They're testing the ground. It's going to take a while before people really start to listen."

Will shrugs again. "I'm not sure. After having the first Hispanic president, people seem to be crazy for another first. The youngest, the first woman…it's like if a black, young woman turned up, she'd be voted in before she could reveal a single policy."

"That's why you need to get in there and start talking policies, start teasing out the politics from the picture."

"Yeah," says Will, not entirely convinced. "So," he continues, "who's looking good to you? Whose campaign would you run?"

Josh laughs. "None of them. If I started another campaign now, Donna would kill me. I'm not even kidding."

Will smiles. "Hypothetically."

"All right," he says, and with both elbows on the table, coffee between his hands, he considers. "Bingley is certainly polling the best. His youth and exuberance are absolutely helping. You're campaigning well. Oh, and the speeches. Toby told me that too. He thought the speeches were suddenly much better."

Will rolls his eyes. "Yeah, well we're working on that. The speech writer is way over qualified, and should be doing other things…" He shakes his head. "Damn candidates."

Josh laughs. "The uncontrollable ones often turn out to be the best."

"So who else?"

"Dawn Lee is good. She's changed her mind on some policy which doesn't necessarily look good, but then it shows an awareness of the campaign itself, maybe. They're riding the same character wave as you though."

"Yeah."

Josh pauses for a second. "Have you heard about Saul Zimmerman?"

"He's coming way down the polls, isn't he?"

"Well," says Josh. "He won't exactly be breaking new ground. He's no young, black, woman." He smirks. "Anyway, his campaign is pretty ropey. I'm not sure who's running it, but they could do with being fired."

"What's he like?" Something is fluttering inside of Will. It's that expression on Josh's face that's doing it. It's the same one he had eight years ago, almost the first time they met.

"Interesting. Stubborn as hell. One of the smartest men I think I've ever seen though."

"No. You who worked for President Bartlet?"

Josh laughs, and shrugs. "I know," he says, "and yet…there's something about him." He shrugs again. "He's very interesting. Keep an eye on him."

Their eyes lock for a second, and Will feels like maybe there's more to this moment than just friendly chat. He'd never leave Charles, would he? They don't just work together. They're friends, going on ten years. It's not something you drop because of opportunity and fame. Will takes a breath and smiles. "Sure," he says, and vows to keep an eye on Saul Zimmerman, just enough to be wary, not enough to be interested.

Beeping from Josh's pocket disturbs them. He glances down. "Oh, I've got to go," he says. "Sorry it wasn't quite the catch up we planned. Donna said to come round to dinner some time maybe?"

Will nods. "Sure, that'd be nice."

"OK."

They both stand up, and shake hands, and then Josh is gone, striding out back to the White House. Will sits back down for a second, and breathes again. No. It'd be safer to just not think about Saul Zimmerman at all. And with that, he adds his money to that which Josh left, and leaves.

* * *

"_We fly to beauty as an asylum from the terrors of finite nature_."

"And what's that?"

She turns where she sits on the top fence rail and smiles at her father. "Emerson."

Rex Bennet leans against the rail, gazing off across the fields in the early morning sun light. The grass sparkles with dew, and the bees are beginning to hover over the flowers around the house. The sun has risen behind the trees on the horizon, and their spidery, feathered shapes tower, rustling in the breeze. Behind them now comes the sound of horses, stamping and breathing out heavily, harrumphing. Sol leads one out, tall and dark, stepping proudly. Rex shakes his head slowly. "I don't know. What happens when finite nature _is _beautiful?"

Elizabeth smiles. "I'm not sure. Is it?"

He shrugs. "I'm not sure I understand it anyway. I like they way life cycles round though."

"You're not scared of dying?"

He laughs. "Concerned for my health sweet pea?" He straightens up, and sighs. "I've had a good life and I know where I'm going after. Why fear the end? What is it those singers you like say? _The first and last breaths don't matter?_"

She nods, and turns back to the view before her. "_It's all the ones that are in between"_ she murmurs.

"Exactly. And I'm making the most of those breaths, and not worrying about the last one, which," he adds, his arm around his daughter, his bristly cheek against her arm, "will be a good way away."

She grins, and slips the arm round to his shoulders. "Good."

They stay that way for a minute, both looking out across the land. Then, Rex stirs. "You any closer to knowing what you're going to do with your life?"

She laughs. "No. Not really. Nothing seems right."

He shakes his head slowly. "You can do anything," he says, with a smile. "Just don't do it too far away."

She smiles, touched. "OK," she whispers.

"Well then, the work ain't going to do itself is it?" With that he straightens up and walks away, whistling between his teeth. She hears her mother getting up inside the house, the shower running. It'll be at least half an hour until breakfast, so she sighs, climbs down off the fence, and heads off after her father.

* * *

_A week later_

"You have got to be kidding me! What's wrong with the bunk house?"

My daughter whirls around, arms full of bedding, hair whacking her in the face which is, not for the first time, incredulous.

"Lizzie, can you just do it?"

She gets that stubborn look. The one that first appeared when she learned to walk, and wanted to climb the stairs. She couldn't speak, but boy did we know what that face said. Her mouth settles in a firm line. Frown sets in. Everything tense. "What's wrong with the bunk house?" she says again, slowly, anger brimming.

My wife runs a hand across her face. "Nothing is wrong bunk house. Nothing at all. But I have decided that these guests will sleep in the house."

"But why?"

"Sweet pea" I interject. "Just do as your mother says."

She glances down over the stair rail to see me, in the hall, and her frown deepens. She has lost and she knows it, and yet she's not going to go down graciously. "But what's wrong with it? Why if every other guy who stays gets put in there, why do these guys get _our_ bedrooms at _our _inconvenience? Why?"

I laugh. I can't help it. "Darlin', it's no inconvenience to you! Jane shares your bed for one night which you'll yak through anyway, and we make up the study roll-away. The only person getting put out is your mother with all these extra linens, and she doesn't appear to mind."

She sighs, looking seven again, and begins to walk downstairs to the study, linens flapping behind her like a train of a dress. "It's just because they're rich" she mutters as she passes me.

"Yes" retorts my wife, finally having had enough. "It is, Lizzie. We house your cousins and your uncles in the bunkhouse. We house Sol and Jem and anyone else who works for us there. We do not," she continues, her voice rising higher, "house the man who very well might be our next President in the bunk house! What would he think?"

Lizzie stops at the study door and shrugs. "Maybe he'll think 'Gee, there are some people who aren't blinded by money and…'"

"All right, that's enough." I flap a hand at my wife who rolls her eyes and enters Jane's old room to start making the bed. "I know it sounds hypocritical, and I know that you clearly don't understand, and frankly," I add, in an undertone, "I'm not sure I do ever understand your mother, but this is her decision."

"It's a stupid one," she mutters, dumping the linens on the desk and leaning against it, arms crossed.

"Hey. None of that." I lean next to her. "This man may well turn out to be important, and he probably has never slept in anything as simple as our beds, let alone the bunkhouse. He's also Janey's boss," I add, "and any of those would be a good reason to be civil, all right?"

She's silent for a minute. "Not the second one," she says, and smiles, sighing. "Fine," she says, seeing my smile in return. "I'll be civil."

"You never know," I say, straightening up. "They may turn out to be, what, kindred spirits?"

"OK Anne-of-Green-Gables!" she says, resigned, and smiles properly. I pull her into my arms and kiss the top of her head, wishing it was as easy as it had been when she was seven.

"They won't though," she adds, and sighs, turning to make up the bed. "They never are."

I pause in the doorway and watch her. She isn't seven anymore, and I never knew how hard it would be, just trying to keep her happy, let alone dreaming for her. I sigh. "They might be sweet pea. They might." And I leave, out the front door to go and see to the horses.

* * *

**Hey. Welcome to the madness. **

**05/07/10: I needed to reformat, and at the same time, have hacked half the Dramatis Personae, just to West Wing characters. I'm happy to replace the full and massive list. I just thought it might be scaring people off. So, if my cast of thousands is foxing you, and you want my handy reference guide back, drop me a line. Otherwise, we will stay like this. FP.**


	2. The meaning of propriety

**I apologise for the weird email addresses. They will prove useful at some points, I assure you. If anyone knows how to weasel around the system and put them in, I'd appreciate knowing. Thanks.**

_

* * *

_

**The meaning of propriety**

"Hello? Is anyone there? Please pick up if you are. Lyddie? Kit? Really? None of you are there? Well I guess if you're all actually out, you know, preparing for tomorrow and will therefore come in later exhausted and curse at me, then maybe I shouldn't sound so surprised. I was calling to confirm stuff, but I guess if someone can call me back when you get this? OK, well while I have you as a captive audience, I wanted to say thank you so much for this. I know it was last minute, I know that it's a massive upheaval, but really, he might be the President one day! Think of that. And he's so nice. The whole reason I got asked about the farm was because I talked to him about a week ago. I was missing you guys and he was so nice…Anyway, he remembered our conversation. Actually remembered me! I was so surprised, someone that important. So thanks guys. I think this might make a massive difference at work. Like, two weeks ago I was at a desk, calling people all day, and now they've moved me up into his offices with the really important people and, you know, I might actually make a difference. It's what I came here for. I was just starting to think that it would never happen. So. Call me, please, when you can. I need to confirm a whole bunch of things. I love you guys."

* * *

Fr: Caroline Formisano at charlesbingley

To: Will Darcy at charlesbingley

Subject: Seriously?

We're going out to a farm in Tennessee? Seriously? Me. In my shoes. With my hair. At a farm. Or is it a ranch? I can't really remember what you said. I think I blacked out at the suggestion of walking between faeces and idiot hicks. Whose idea was is to have this stupid thing at a farm? I mean, from a communications stand point, it's a dream. Charles, standing with one hand on a horse, sleeves rolled up, looking young and brawny, yet with a heart for the rural areas and blah blah blah. From a personal hatred-of-the-countryside point though, I'll never forgive you. Or Charles. Or that girl in the office who appears to suddenly be organising it. She never stops smiling. It gets irritating after a while. Anyway, I thought you should know. I may look happy on the outside while we're trolling over hills and inspecting live stock, but I'm telling you now, this is not OK, and you will pay. Probably in alcohol. Coming out tonight?

C

* * *

wd: Are you there? Do you even know how to work this damn system?

cb: Will? Or is it Santa? I can't tell. You're both so jolly.

wd: Funny. If you're writing a speech, I'm going to come in there and find something incriminating. I'm not above downloading porn onto your computer.

cb: Dude. I know I chose well when I chose you for my chief of staff.

wd: If the public knew that you're starting messages with 'dude' they may be a little concerned.

cb: Not as concerned as the residents of California should have been when Schwarzenegger started twittering policy decisions in text speak.

wd: This world makes me sad.

cb: You need a hug?

wd: No. Please God no. But talking of inappropriate sexual harassment (as apposed to the appropriate kind of course- seriously. Maybe we should jack it all in now) Caroline has been emailing me, and while she's brilliant politically, I'd rather stick my graduation-present-fountain-pen in my eye than go out drinking again with her.

cb: Really? But you make such a lovely couple.

wd: If it weren't for the fact that then I'd be out of a job, I'd wish death upon you. Slow, and painful.

cb: You'll change your tune when I'm the commander in chief.

wd: And yet you weren't amused when George changed your ring tone to Hail to the Chief.

cb: Your sister is cruel and unusual in many ways. I can't imagine who that reminds me of. Oh- wait.

wd: So. What are you doing if not writing speeches?

cb: Hm. Is this the only reason you messaged me? To check on what I was doing? You could have just shifted your lazy ass out of your chair, hustled across the hall, and entered my office. Just a thought.

wd: I probably could have just yelled.

cb: Oh. Hang on.

wd: Yes, I can hear you. We may start losing valuable staff if they catch on that you're a moron.

cb: But one with power. I think I may change my ring tone back to HTTC.

wd: I think I may need to garner more respect for you, from others and myself. Could you do something brilliant and political?

cb: Right now?

wd: Well...

cb: Seriously Will. Don't you have anything better to be doing than messaging me? Not that it's not delightful, but, you know, slightly concerning that we have nothing better to do.

wd: Oh, I'm in the middle of a meeting right now.

cb: You're WHAT?

wd: It's fine. I told them that it was our eccentric yet brilliant speech writer yelling just now.

cb: Well aren't I grateful. Oh, got to go. Jane Bennet's here to talk about the event. Good Lord she's beautiful.

wd: She smiles too much. I can see her from here. It's blinding me.

cb: Lighten up Grandpa. Just because you've forgotten how to smile.

wd: Is this the only reason you were keen on using her family's farm? Because you want to get with the hot office worker? Charles?

cb: Oh, no. Wilkies farm BURNING DOWN had nothing to do with changing the venue. Now who's the moron? It seemed like a good idea, her family is Democrat sympathetic at the very least. She can organise it working with them. It seemed, I don't know, PERFECT. Even you said it was perfect.

wd: Not if you're going to get distracted by smiley-mc-teeth-bright-hottison over there.

cb: OK coach. I'll focus. Now leave me alone. I need to talk hay bales.

wd: Charles? You're not serious are you?

wd: Charles?

wd: Damn.

* * *

Fr: Jane Bennet at CharlesBingley

To: KitBee; ebethbnet; Francesca; sexylyddieohlala; Mary; Rex.

Subject: Well one of you is bound to get this!

Sorry to send this to you all. I just figured since you've all been so busy that this would be the surest way of catching you, and I didn't want to take any chances.

First, thank you. Thank you again. This is such a great experience. I don't think I can ever say thank you enough. So thank you, a million times.

Second, pretty much everything is now under control. I just checked the last details with Mr Bingley himself, and he's thrilled with it all. The music, those decorations that Mary has planned, the whole set up. And he's so thrilled to be able to stay over, even if it is just him and his chief of staff. They want a chance to chat to people here at the event, to let them know what he's about, but also to chat to you guys, particularly you Daddy. He wants to know what the rural community really need from him. Which is why they're staying the night, so we can have like a breakfast meeting- like real political people. Which I know they are, but this is all so surreal. I'm so thrilled that we could help, as he's such a great man, and I really think he'd be a wonderful President. I hope all our neighbours agree!

OK. Well I'll be there on Friday, early with a group of people- security and lawyers and journalists and the like, preparing for Bingley's arrival, and to take pictures of the land and the animals. So it's not just a good thing to do. It'll be good for the farm. Really. They're arriving on Saturday, aiming for midday, so probably more like three (!) and then the event can get going. Then Bingley and Darcy will stay over, as will I, and we can talk over breakfast, and probably take a few more photos, before they go to church in town (I know- it seems like publicity, but he's a good man. Really Daddy) and then off to continue the campaign. I'm afraid I'm going then too, but we're leaving a team behind to clear up and make sure that you don't have to do anything.

Thank you so much. I love you all.

Janey xxx

* * *

"Oh she's in love!"

"Mom…"

"With a Presidential candidate! I always said so. With that hair and those teeth, she should be on the front covers."

"Mom…"

"See this Lizzie, this is why he shouldn't be sleeping in the bunkhouse. We need to keep him happy. He may one day be your brother-in-law!"

"Mom, I think that you're getting a bit ahead of yourself."

Francesca wheels around from where she has been making breakfast, Jane's email printed out and pinned up above the stove. "Ahead of myself?" she asks, incredulous. "Have you read her email? She's so clearly smitten with him. And have you seen his photo? Such a handsome man." Her face becomes dreamy. "They'd be such a beautiful couple…"

"Oh, Mom _come on_. She may like him, though it's probably just that she's just impressed and thankful for seemingly nice people around her, but you don't even know about him! He may have a girlfriend, a fiancée even!"

"Not as far as the papers say," she says, spooning out pancake batter onto the griddle. "They say that he is quite unattached."

Lizzie rolls her eyes, and continues to lay the table one handed, a cup of coffee in the other. "Well I'm just saying," she says. "Don't get your hopes up. It very well may come to nothing."

Francesca turns round, looking scornful. "Nothing? Not if I have anything to do with it!"

"Mom?"

She smiles, clearly finished with the conversation. "Now go and tell the others that breakfast is ready Lizzie dear." She clatters warm plates out of the stove and then turns to begin serving up. Lizzie watches, frozen, horrified for a second, before sighing, and walking off to the porch to ring the dinner bell.

* * *

**Many thanks to my lovely reviewers, and to LJ.**


	3. You're gonna need an awful big glass

**You're gonna need an awful big glass of water to get that down**

Will's headache starts early. The grumblings of a possible headache start as they get off the plane, out into the sunshine. It grows as the car turns off the main road, under the arching 'Bennet's Farm' sign. It reaches the stabbing-behind-the-left-eye thing just as they get out of the car, and Jane Bennet walks to meet them. Well, it might not be that, so much as Charles's reaction. His smile, his kiss on both cheeks, her mother's pointed look at the next oldest daughter. It reaches all-head-encompassing heights as the event begins, the lights: dim, the music, frankly: country. They have, he grudgingly admits to himself, done a fabulous job with the venue. The farm is idyllic, the whole feel vibrant and fun yet somehow homely, traditional. He's not quite sure how they've done it. Either way, Charles finishes his speech, a few local democrats talk briefly, and, thankfully, not too damningly, the music starts up, accompanied by dancing, and Will's headache reaches blinding proportions. He sits on what he realises to late is a genuine hay bale, right in the corner, and tries to will his headache away. He's squinting, or maybe has one eye closed. He can't tell anymore. He does note, thankfully, that his staff are all coping brilliantly. Matt and Chris are chatting in the corner with some farmers, beers waving, jokes sailing, and hopefully, some politics talking. Viv is also chatting her heart out, engaged with a group of older women, laughing with them and looking at pictures of their grandchildren. Even Jaime is dancing with some unidentifiable young man. Caroline, of course, looks a little frosty, but that's no surprise. In fact, he realises, just too late, she's walking over.

"You look how I feel," she says, smiling sardonically.

"And how is that?"

"Like I wish I was off my head on vodka."

He can't help but nod agreement. Caroline sits down beside him, offers a few choice words for the person who thought of using hay bales as seating, and then sighs. "This is completely insupportable. I do get to the point when I just don't care about large swathes of the population."

Will grunts. He's not sure what other sounds would be possible without making his head spilt open. A cough disturbs them.

"I'm sorry," says Jane Bennet. "Mr Bingley asked me to bring this to you Mr Darcy."

He manages to look up to see the shining vision of hair and teeth and eyes, now wearing the denim as suggested by someone on the team. Someone who Caroline will no doubt attempt to fire on Monday. She's carrying it off much better than Caroline. It may have something to do with good grace and a genuine smile. She holds out a bottle to Will, smiles, and then turns to leave.

"Jen, is it?" interrupts Caroline.

"Jane," she says, and smiles. Again.

"Jane," says Caroline, as one might to a beloved niece. "Come and sit here, and point out your family to me. I just love these small town gatherings, you know."

Will notes, without much surprise, that Jane is genuinely touched.

"Well, all right. Thank you. I should only be a second though. I've promised to teach Mr Bingley to line dance." She laughs, shrugging at the craziness of it all. "It's so bizarre!"

"Very strange," says Caroline, between clenched teeth.

Will lowers the bottle from his forehead where it has been functioning as an icepack, to finally glance at the label. _Grandma Bennet's secret-recipe lemonade._ Typical. He looks up and catches Charlie's eye. Charlie grins, before turning back to the heartfelt conversation he is having with an old couple. He talks for a few seconds, shakes hands, and then walks towards them.

"How're you doing?" he asks them all.

"Wonderfu,l" says Caroline, teeth clenched.

"I'm great," says Jane, easy, honest.

"I want to die," mutters Will, placing the bottle back against his forehead.

"Good, good," says Charlie, clapping Will on the shoulder, enjoying his discomfort. "Jane, come and teach me how to do this. I've promised Brenda a go round the dance floor, and I can't embarrass myself in front of a hottie like that!" He turns and winks at the little old lady in the corner who blushes and giggles in return.

Will makes a noise somewhere between a growl and a grunt, which causes Charles to turn and say, "you want to come too Will? I'm sure Caroline would like a dance."

Will sends a look of such loathing to Charles as to hopefully kill him. No such luck.

"I'd be hopeless at this," says Caroline, gesturing vaguely ahead of her.

"Well maybe one of your sisters could teach them?" offers Charles, smiling at Jane. She smiles back. For a change.

"Sure. Lizzie loves a good dance."

"See Will? Lizzie will dance with you. Oh!" he continues. "The timing! Lizzie, right?" He catches a girl by her elbow and she spins round to face him, dark curls flying. "Want to teach a city boy with a stick up his ass to dance?"

Her expression which had been suspicious, largely mirroring Will's look of loathing, drops as she smiles. "Really?" she says. "And who might that be?"

Charles steps aside, and gestures in such a way which might legitimately be accompanied by a 'TA-DA!' "Will here has not moved a foot all night."

She gazes down at him for a second. "Really?" she says again, the loathing beginning to creep back. So she likes smilers. Tough. The headache is now stabbing at both eyes. Smiling is off the agenda. "You want to dance?"

He manages both eyes open to look at her. She is not smiling. "Not desperately," he manages to answer.

A tall, ruggedly handsome young man approaches them. "Jane, Lizzie? Want to dance?"

Charles grins. "Ah, see, Jane's about to dance with me, and Lizzie is trying to entice my friend Will here onto the floor, but Caroline…she is otherwise unengaged."

Caroline opens her mouth, and then closes it again.

"Really? Would you like to dance Ma'am?"

She closes her eyes for a second, breathes out heavily, and then plasters on her best smile. "Sure," she says. "Why ever not?"

"See, isn't that great?" says Charlie. "Let's go. Will, Lizzie, we'll see you on the dance floor." He takes Jane's hand and they walk away into the group of people dancing. Caroline shoots Will a deadly look, and then follows with her partner. Finally, he is left alone. Well. Not quite. There appears to be an angry looking girl at his elbow. She sits down with whumph of hay. "You think you're better than this?"

He turns to look at her. "I really don't."

She raises an eyebrow, then stares at his face for a few seconds longer, frowning slightly, before standing up. "Come with me."

"Really, I wasn't kidding about dancing."

She stands, looking even less enamoured, if that was possible. "I wasn't going to force you," she says, grabs his hand and pulls. "Bring the lemonade," she shoots back over her shoulder, as she drags him through the crowd towards the big barn doors, open to the inky night. She doesn't stop marching forward until they reach a fence which Will, ungainly at the sudden change of light, plus the disability of an excruciating headache, walks straight into.

"What the…"

She lets go of his hand, or more precisely, his wrist, and climbs up the fence until she's sitting on the top rail. "Come on," she says, patting the wide wood beside her. "I'll take the lemonade." She lifts the bottle out of his hands, takes a sip, and sighs. She turns, and realises that he still hasn't moved. "I'm not kidding. Get up here."

Will, contemplating how quickly he could kill himself out here, finally gives in. He hoists himself up the fence, swings his legs over, and sits down.

"Lemonade," she says, quietly, handing it to him, and then, "sip."

He raises an eyebrow. She is unmoving. He sighs heavily, and then sips.

"Now breathe."

"Oh good advice. Wasn't doing _that_ before."

"Breathe." For a small, young woman, she is incredibly threatening. He sighs, and then takes a deep breath. And then another.

"Better?"

He turns to her, confused. "There was nothing wrong."

She snorts with laughter, and shakes her head. "Bull. You had a headache. A massive one."

"How the hell did you know that?"

She shrugs. "You were looking like how it feels. Keep drinking. It'll make it better."

He takes another swig of lemonade, and the stabbing ceases. It still pounds, but at least he can see now in the cool night air. They sit in silence, the murmur of the party behind them, crickets ahead.

"So you're his chief of staff?"

"Yeah."

"Oh."

Silence again.

"You're Jane's sister?"

"One of four."

"There are four of you?"

She smiles, slightly at his horror. "Four sisters. Five including Jane."

"Sheesh," he mutters, and takes another sip of lemonade.

"Well luckily we're all just about as charming as you, so, you know, we'll go far." Her voice drips sarcasm. He'd seen it in books, and never understood it, and yet, there it is, dripping with sarcasm. "You going to manage not to have a fit or something?" she asks.

"I'll be all right."

"Then I can go back to the party that I've spent every waking hour this week organising?"

He bristles. He can't help it. "I never asked you to drag me out here."

"No," she says. "And yet you were bringing the whole thing down with your delightful expression of pure unutterable joy." She sighs and adds as an after thought, "you had a bit of an Inigo Montoya thing going on." She swings around on the top of the fence, and jumps off.

"I wasn't going to kill anyone. Probably," mutters Will, more to himself than anyone else. Lizzie stops, and looks up at him, smiling slightly. Then she walks back to the party, leaving him alone in the star spangled darkness.

* * *

Fr: ebethbnet

To: charlottelu at warnerstantonandlane

Subject: The flocking flying party

Remind me never to go back into politics. No matter how desperate I get, no matter how wander-lusty, no matter how many times I rant to you about the government and education and how kids don't have to read anymore, no matter any of that, even if I tell you that I genuinely want to do it politics, don't let me. Chain me to your radiator if you have to. They're a bunch of blood sucking ass kissing hypocritical douche bags and I want nothing to do with them.

Remind me of all this when you've chained me up, just so that I don't get resentful.

Liz x

* * *

Fr: charlottelu at warnerstantonandlane

To: ebethbnet

Subject: It wasn't that bad, really.

Cheer up Lizzie. It could be worse. You could have a massive amount of Democrats all crammed into your farm telling you about policy and issues and…oh wait!

It wasn't that bad. Some of them were a bit pushy, a bit dull. A few were pure hell (naming no names, Caroline Formisano- that woman is charming and beautiful on TV. Clearly the screen adds charisma as well as weight) but most were quite nice. Charles Bingley was charm personified. If it weren't for the fact that he's clearly smitten with Jane (so, you know, you're probably stuck with him for a while) I'd go after him myself. What a bonus. Great prospects, and hot.

Anyway, where did you go half way through? I saw you and Bingley's chief of staff going out, and then you didn't come back for a good few minutes, and he didn't re-emerge for AGES. Did you push him into the lake? Please tell me you did. Although he maybe hotter than Bingley himself. Clearly not as charming, but still. Who cares when he's got those eyes, and that accent?

Charley x

* * *

Fr: ebethbnet

To: charlottelu at warnerstantonandlane

Subject: You sing cheep cheep chirp chirp and I will kill you dead.

You are weird and sick and twisted. You're mistaking hot for DEEPLY ANNOYING. It's an easy mistake to make, but still…And the accent? No. It's annoying. Clearly an affectation. Or result of private school. Either way, I don't like it.

You and my Mom should huddle. She too thinks that Jane and Charles would make a fabulous couple. I dread what she plans to do tomorrow, or what she may have already done. Oh sheesh…My mother is a liability. If I were Henry the what, 2nd? 3rd? I'd have accidentally had her offed by my knights by now. You know it's true.

Better go. The sun'll come up soon, and I probably could do with some sleep so as I'm not even more confrontational tomorrow. Got to keep the end up for Janey.

In the meantime, find yourself someone NORMAL. Clearly you're getting frazzled by a lack of male attention. We need to find us some dudes.

Liz xx

* * *

Fr: charlottelu at warnerstantonandlane

To: ebethbnet

Subject: LACK OF MALE ATTENTION?

Thanks for that Liz. I appreciate the underlining of how I haven't met a guy in ages and am becoming slightly desperate. No, no. Thank YOU.

And stop being such a grouch. Not only did I also go to private school, but you went to a private college did you not? So when I say HYPOCRITE, you say, ME!

You clearly need some sleep. As do I. And a man. I shall fall asleep and dream of William Darcy, and there's nothing you can do to stop me, so HA!

Charley


	4. I don't know who he is, but I hate him

**I don't know who he is, but I hate him**

The sun pools in honey coloured squares on the wooden floors. The bees stir and begin to bump about the flowers. The chickens out in the yard begin to scratch and cluck, and just as the time reaches five thirty, Will Darcy wakes up. He stretches and blinks away the last remnants of headache. Then he turns his mind to start resenting how he now naturally wakes up at such a God-forsaken hour. Except that very expression probably doesn't apply on a morning like this. He climbs up out of the roll away bed, rubs his hands over his messy hair, and sets about finding his jeans from the night before. It was one of Charlie's rules, right from the beginning, and it certainly makes it easier today to conform to casual dress weekends, having been forced to wear jeans last night. It hadn't seemed right whilst planning the event, but he was shouted down by everyone else but Caroline, and then the deciding vote by Charlie. Now, he admits, there is a certain freedom in not worrying that his shirt is a bit crumpled, or that the creases have dropped. He pauses and shakes his head. Now, he realises, there is a certain horror in contemplating ones wardrobe with such detail. He pulls on his college sweatshirt and walks slowly through the quiet house, finding to his delight that the coffee pot is already on. He pours himself a mug, and then stands, hands round it, contemplating. The crunching tick of the grandfather clock continues in a consistent rhythm from the hall. There must be a few people up, as there are muffled noises from the stables outside. The birds have begun to sing, and are having a go at deafening each other. He smiles to himself. It reminds him of his father's home. Except it's _his_ home now, he supposes. He sighs and then carefully opens the screen door, and walks out onto the veranda, looking out over the land, down to what he realises is the fence he sat on for half and hour the night before. Some one is sitting there now, and he has an inkling as to who it may be.

I'm shaken from my sleep-deprived reverie by a voice at my elbow. I'm used to Dad there at this time in the morning. Except it's not Dad. It's someone with a very different voice.

"Hi."

I'm so surprised that I nearly throw my coffee over him. Thankfully, I don't. "Oh. Hi."

He leans against the fence, just like Dad does, arms out ahead of him, coffee clasped between his hands, one foot hooked behind the other.

"You found the coffee then?"

He nods. There's silence between us for a minute then, "it's good."

"Yeah." I sip my own and breathe in the steam. "I needed it this morning."

He looks over at me, and raises an eyebrow. "Didn't enjoy last night so much, huh?"

I sigh. I'm trying so hard not to judge him. So hard to not be confrontational. "I really enjoyed last night. It was just quite a _long_ night." I sound like a school teacher. Or someone prim out of _Little Women._ Amy maybe.

He nods, slowly.

"You're not in a suit," I say. It's a sickness. In the silence I'll say anything, just to break the painful stretch of nothingness. Occasionally the words make sense. More often than not I sound like an idiot. I blame the other person generally. They shouldn't leave such massive gaps.

"No," he says, smiling slightly to himself. "Not on a Sunday."

"That's your rule is it? Some personal dress time?"

He looks at me like I'm crazy. To be fair, I would too. "No," he says. "It's Charles's rule. An attempt to stop us from working too hard."

"Oh." It makes sense. Kind of. "Does it work?"

His smile is rueful and I immediately despise my traitor stomach which flips at the sight of it. "Not at all." Damn those dimples.

"I wouldn't have imagined it," I say. "I'm not sure that Dad owns anything but jeans, and yet he works the hardest of anyone I've ever known."

"It must be."

"Must be what?"

"Hard work."

This conversation is killing me. Long fake coffee sips are the only way to make it bearable. That and real coffee sipping. The caffeine is beginning to make up for a distinct lack of sleep. However, being awake is not making this more bearable. I'd say it's getting worse. "So," I say, casting round for anything. Anything at all. "You're up early."

"So are you."

"I live and work on a farm."

"I'm in politics."

Did we really just have that exchange? You'd think an innocent beginning like '_you're up early_' would start some back and forth. But no. Thankfully, he's clearly not enjoying it either, although he needn't make it _that_ clear. What if this was normal conversation for me? What if I thought it was going well. He drums his fingers against his mug, flicking his nails against the handle.

"You lived here long?"

"My whole life."

He nods, and looks out across the fields. "It's quiet."

I bristle. I'm not sure that he's said anything bad directly, but it just feels like it. "You mean boring?"

"No, I mean quiet," he returns curtly.

I take a breath. This really is getting worse. "So where are you from?"

"Here and there. New Hampshire from about seven, Washington from about fifteen, London, Oxford…"

"Wow." What else could I say? Really. He's making me feel like some home-spun character from Little House on the Prairie. "But where were you born?"

His smile is rueful. Again. "Tennessee?" he says, almost a question, more laden with embarrassment than I could have imagined.

"Really?" It isn't a question. It is triumph, pure and unadulterated. I feel less like Laura Ingalls Wilder, more like pulling a smug smile. I manage not to. Just.

"Yeah," he says, scratching his head. "Mountain City."

"You," I begin, so smug now I'm about to burst, "were born six hours from here, upstate Tennessee?"

He smiles, and rolls his eyes. He is unbearably attractive. Damn you Charlotte. I just thought he was annoying yesterday. "Yes," he says, and drains his coffee. "What about you?"

What the hell. I am the 21st century Laura Ingalls Wilder, and proud. "Born in Tennessee, school in Tennessee, college in Tennessee, my first two jobs in Tennessee…" I trail off. His eyebrows are raised.

"You've never left?"

"You didn't let me finish" I say. "Third job, back home on the farm, Tennessee."

He smiles, more to himself than anything else. "Why haven't you ever left the state?"

"I'm wanted in all other forty-nine," I deadpan.

He looks at me, over his shoulder, eyebrows raised again.

"Even Hawaii."

"I'm serious."

I shrug. "I don't really know. I love it here. I love the people, and after my last real job, I didn't really know want I wanted to do, and since not all of us have the money to swan off to London and Oxford…" It comes out meaner than I intended. "Well," I finish lamely. "Nothing has ever drawn me out of here."

His nod is cold, somehow. "You should visit some places," he says quietly. "Wales is beautiful."

I feel bad. He's an ass, and this conversation was going to be the death of me, but I was mean. Unnecessarily so. "OK," I say, smiling at him. "Maybe I will."

He nods again, steps back from the rail, pauses for a second, and then walks back towards the house. I sigh. I can't help it. It was like there was some flicker of humanity between us, and then I plunged it back into the icy depths of stilted, painful conversation. I drain my own mug, and sigh into it, the hot air swirling back up into my face. At least I won't have to see him again. With any luck.

* * *

The Dining Room is impressively clean. For the first time that any of the family can remember, there is no pile of books on the sideboard, no bridles lying in the corner, every swirl and swipe of dust is gone, and the air smells slightly of beeswax polish. The smell is abating however with the onslaught of breakfast aromas from the kitchen. As they begin to gather between the dining room and the kitchen, Jane slips an arm around her mother and kisses her cheek.

"The dining room looks beautiful, Mom."

A rainbow of emotions chase each other across her face. She is pleased, proud, and then bristles. "What do you mean, sweetheart?" she says, deliberately and slowly. "It always looks like this." Lydia walks in wearing an outfit which Grandma Bennet (of the lemonade fame) would have had something to say about. She snorts.

Jane, ever the good daughter, turns round and exclaims at the sight of her sister. "Lyddie! Where have you been?" From anyone else it would have sounded accusatory. From Jane it sounds like Lydia is Santa and Jane is the little orphan Annie, receiving her first Christmas present. She throws her arms round her. "You look amazing!"

Mary raises her eyebrows. These days she barely does anything but raise her eyebrows, but still.

"Have you met Mr Bingley?" She drags Lydia behind her towards Charlie. "Mr Bingley, this is my youngest sister, Lydia."

Lydia, slightly aware that Jane crushed her attempts at mocking Mom, had been pouting. Now she turns up the full wattage of her 'seductive smile'. Mary groans and turns away, walking into the kitchen, where Lizzie is standing at the stove, cooking.

"Jane just introduced Lydia to Bingley."

Lizzie turns round, wincing. "What did she do?"

Mary shrugs, and pulls herself up backwards onto the work surface. "She didn't have to do anything. Her top said it all."

"How bad?"

Mary smiles, ever so slightly. "The green one."

"You're going to have to give me more than…"

"The owls. The," using air quotes, "_pair of hooters._"

Lizzie groans and turns back to the stove. "Oh sweet merciful…Did Janey notice?"

Mary shrugs. "If she had she was pretending not to. It's always been my policy with Lydia."

"Mm. Mine too." She takes out a stack of plates from the cupboard and puts them next to Mary. "What about Kit?"

"What about me?" the girl in question asks, wandering in.

"She wanted to know if you were being as cheap and insufferable as Lydia."

"Mary!" Lizzie winces. "Kit, I…"

"No, I wasn't," she butts in. "Lyds has the gold medal when it comes to flirting and generally getting guys to notice her."

"Oh, they didn't notice you?" goads Mary, kicking her heels against the cupboard door.

"Guys! Will you just…"

The door swings open. "Anything I can do?" Charles smiles as he asks, looking hesitantly between the sisters who are now looking murderous. "Take anything through, or…" He trails off, looking like he wished that he had never opened the door.

Lizzie sighs, and then passes him the stack of plates. "If you could take that through please. Thank you," she calls after him, as he gratefully walks back through to the dining room. She turns to her sisters. "Please, be civil. Just for Janey, for a few hours." She sighs and runs a hand through her hair. "It's not that hard is it?"

Mary shrugs. "Just as long as she doesn't talk to me." She jumps off the side, picks up the plates that Lizzie has already piled high with food, and walks back into the dining room. Kit quickly follows, jugs of juice and coffee in each hand.

On her own, Lizzie breathes easily again. The clink and bustle from the dining room calms her. At least they are getting on with it. She rescues her coffee from behind the wooden spoons and takes a long drink.

"You all right darlin'?"

She turns round, almost straight into her father. She laughs. "I'll be better when this is all over."

He slings an arm around her shoulders. "You're telling me. I've got to go and bare my soul to that perfect stranger in there."

Lizzie grins. "Have you ever had to bare your soul?"

He shrugs. "Your mother likes her men mysterious, luckily for me."

"You're incorrigible."

He laughs deeply, and takes the last plate that she fills with food out of her hands. "Come on. Let's go and do this thing."

* * *

**Thank you lovely reviewers for your lovely reviews.**


	5. Breakfast, insults & uncomfortable beds

**Breakfast, insults and uncomfortable beds**

I used to be a breakfast kind of guy. I flew the standard for porridge. A scrambled egg and bacon was like magic. Even multicoloured, multi-grained, frosted, bejewelled cereals were not beneath me. Even the ones with toys. Breakfast set me up for the day, and yet now, as my days increasingly start earlier and in places with specialities which turn the stomach before dawn, I have lost the love. Coffee is now breakfast. Pastries with large amounts of jam and icing give an occasional needed whack of blood sugar. The days when I have heard the day before of a colleague, dropping due to fatigue, old age, heart attacks, usually induce a brief spate of fruit eating, but it doesn't have the kind of mastery it used to. There's none of the all singing, all dancing pageantry that breakfast should be. A bad coffee and a limp Danish, wrapped in a napkin, is about as good as it gets. Therefore, I am confused with alternate waves of horror and nostalgia at the feast of frankly Tudor proportions (seriously expecting a gilded swan, any minute) that has come through the kitchen door. My fears are abated for a second. Jane hands me a coffee. A damn good one too. Of course, then Rex insists on us all bowing our heads, blessing the food. The youngest two daughters take the opportunity to sneak the best looking pancakes off the stack, but everyone else appears to respect the moment. There's something about this guy. Something with a reverence and a strict rule. Something, it hits me not for the first time, that reminds me of my father. Heads raise, chatter begins, and food begins to circulate. Part of me wonders if I can stomach it. The rest (in all honesty, ruled by my stomach, ironically) threatens that if I don't, it will take me down. Probably with some kind of caffeine intolerance. I surrender, and accept pancakes. Somehow, Charles has already swung the conversation to the needs of the farming community. You've got to hand it to him, he's good at this. Rex leans back in his seat, tipping it precariously, his hand, holding a steaming mug of coffee, resting on his knee.

"I'll be honest, son. The problems we face here aren't often the kinds that are fixable by any one thing from the government."

Charles, ever the picture of young, democratic charm, leans forward. "Sir, I'd like to be able to offer what I can, but without knowing the problems you face…"

Rex laughs gently. "No matter how much money you have, I very much doubt that you can make it rain, can you?"

Charles laughs, genially. It's like watching an exercise in diplomacy. "Of course not, Sir. I'd just….I'd like to know, if you don't mind telling me."

Rex gives him a long look. Then, "all right, but I'm warning you, this isn't going to help you much." He smiles, and rocks his chair on its two back legs. "My father thought himself to be some kind of politician. He thought he could broker peace amongst me and my brothers. So in his will, rather than leaving the whole place to all of us, or even just to one of us, he legally splits his homestead into three. He gives the house and gardens to my oldest brother, Abe, and the agricultural lands to my other brother, Elias. To me he gives the horses, the stables and the rest of the land. He knew that each bit was almost useless on its own. He thought we could work together and make it work for us." He shrugs, and smiles, slightly, a little rueful. "Course, it didn't work. Abe wanted the land as well, so he could make a go of being a farmer. Elias didn't want any of it at all, and just wanted to move away, but he was a stubborn old dog, and so instead sold his land to Eric Collins, of all people. Abe was left with barely any land, and I with no access to mine, and no house." He smiles again, rueful as ever. "Abe managed to buy some land off the man who bordered him, the other side. He got just enough to grow a little, but nothing like what he wanted. Anyway, he eventually sold me the strip of land down to the road so I could at least get here, but what with that and the money to build this house, Fran and I had to sell the house and lands we already had, just to be able to keep our horses." He drains his coffee, and sets it down on the table. "So," he says. "How can you help a man who hasn't got enough land to make his business really viable, who has to rely on the health of his stock, on the good Lord to bring good weather…" He trails off.

Charles scratches his chin, and smiles. "Well Sir, I don't know but I'd like to help. How do you feel that the government is helping you right now?"

Rex smiles. "Not in many ways, but as I've said, it was my old Daddy who brought all these problems on us, not the government. Now if you could bring forward some bill to stop crotchety old men dividing up their inheritance just to teach their kids a lesson…?"

I feel a smile tug at my mouth. I try to suppress it, not very successfully.

"Look," says Rex, "I would like my taxes to be lower. I'd like it if once in a while religion was talked about rather than just paraded as a tick on a check sheet. I'd like it if…"

He pauses, and glances at me, just as I am rubbing the spot by my eye where a shooting headache has suddenly begun. We are not sitting down to breakfast with a Republican. Are we?

"You're worried?" he asks me.

"Not worried," I say, "so much as wondering what we're doing here."

He looks at me, just looks. "You think I'm wasting your time?"

Charles practically throws himself across the table. "No Sir. Not at all. That is not what Will meant. Right?" he asks, turning to me with a slightly manic look in his eyes. He is so smitten with this girl. Why else is he stopping me from even talking with her father? I sigh. "Mr Bennet, I do not believe that you are wasting our time, but the only political agendas you have mentioned aren't exactly priorities in the Democratic party."

He raises his eyebrows, but before he can say anything, Elizabeth slams her mug on the table, coffee slopping over the edges.

"You wouldn't cut taxes if you could? You don't care about religion? I'd guess you'd also rather people _bought_ their way into power?"

"Lizzie," her father murmurs, a hand on her arm.

I sit up, uncharacteristically straight. "I'd cut taxes tomorrow if it would do good, I care deeply about religion, and I think you should _earn_ anything you get."

Her eyes are like fire. "Then why not have them as part of your policy? Why deride them?"

"Because this country will not get sorted out by everyone paying _less_, and we can't implement religious belief as law!"

"You see it is just a preferential code of ethics."

Charles and Jane exchanged helpless looks. I'll admit, this is not quite going to plan, but I can't just let her question, no, _statement,_ hang in the air.

"I don't see how a law system with complex systems and hierarchies can sit happily beside a law system of belief in one, all knowing, all powerful God. I can't see how they wouldn't mangle each other into pitiful versions of themselves."

Silence falls on the table. It drops, covering everything. Eyebrows are raised, breathing unsteady. You'd think we were just having a heated debate on the many virtues of porn. Or child labour.

Rex passes his mug to Jane. "Would you, sweetheart…?" he asks, and winks as she fills it up. "Look," he says, seemingly brokering peace. "I'll admit, my values are old fashioned and yes, perhaps they're closer to Republican than Democrat. I'm wary of the changes we would make by letting any and all who want to come here. I'm reluctant to pay more taxes to a government which doesn't seem to be doing much for me. I don't quite understand what Mr Darcy here sees as happening if we bring religion more into the spotlight, but I think we can only improve this country with honest Christian values, can't we?"

No one answers. I certainly don't trust myself. He takes a sip of his fresh coffee.

"But you see," he continues, "I understand that we are facing massive problems, and not just here. It's not just rebates and grants that we need out here for our work. It's better schools and better health care, and I understand where you are coming from when you say we need _more _money to do that, not less." He leans back again, tipping. "Here's the thing though. I need to be able to trust that you will spend my money better than I will. Can I trust you with that?"

"Sir," begins Charles, eager and earnest, "we are building this campaign on trust." He pauses, and shoots a glance my way, and then nods, ever so slightly. "I'll be honest," he says, looking back at Rex. "We're campaigning on my values, on the things which I believe to be important, but without Will here, this campaign would have died a long time ago."

Elizabeth rolls her eyes.

"When I first started talking about doing this, seriously," Charles continues, "he only had one demand." He glances my way again. "That honesty comes first, in everything, above everything."

Elizabeth narrows her eyes, and puts down her coffee. "Above winning?"

"Especially above winning," I answer, quietly.

The room is silent. Well, _quiet_ above the level of one of the youngest two Bennets messaging on her cell.

"Well," says Rex, smiling, "I'm not sure that was quite the answer to my question, but I think I liked it more. Now, we don't have long till we need to leave to go up to church, so dig in."

Silence remains for a few seconds longer, and then Jane and Charles between them manage some semblance of a conversation. Slowly, the chatter builds, and I am left alone, all but for a pair of dark eyes across the table, scowling.

Bags packed, slung in the back of the cars, breakfast finished and washed up, and Lydia sent upstairs to change into something less likely to incur the tactful pointing out of Bible passages about dressing modestly ("I'll tell Paul what he can do with his letter to Timothy…"), they are all just about ready to leave. Rex wrangles the youngest two into his old pickup, and Sol and Jem hitch a ride, entertaining the girls with their stories of what they used to get up to in church. Charles, standing in the hall way, staring at a framed newspaper page, spins, as Jane rest a hand on his arm.

"Ready to go sir?"

He gives her a look. "It's Charlie. For the thousandth time." He grins. "Yes, absolutely." They walk out onto the veranda, and he smiles graciously at Francesca. "Mrs Bennet, would like to accompany us in the car? It's a delightfully air conditioned, smooth ride." He grins again, causing Francesca to nearly faint, before ushering her into the car.

"Who wrote that article in the hall?" he asks as they settle, buckling in.

"That's…" begins Jane, cut off quickly by her mother.

"That old thing? I think that's something Lizzie did while she was off at Sewanee." She waves a hand, dismissing it. "Jane, on the other hand. You should have stayed longer Mr Bingley. I've got some beautiful videos of her dance recitals…"

The doors slam, Jane pinches the bridge of her nose, and the car drives off down the dusty road.

Lizzie is left, perched on the veranda rails, slowly realising that if they have all left, that only leaves…

"Where is everyone?"

In a move closely resembling her older sister, she pinches the bridge of her nose, eyes closed, breathing heavily. "They're all gone on ahead," she says, resignedly. "I'm going to have to take you."

Will looks sardonic. "No really," he says. "Tell me what you really think."

She rolls her eyes, and then leads the way round the house to the car she bought years ago with Jane. She doesn't quite realise how tall he is, until he tries to cram himself into the seat. "Is this adjustable in any way?" he asks, looking a little helpless, knees hiked up, shoulders crammed forward.

She shrugs. "We've never had to move it. Try there." Between them, they somehow get the seat adjusted slightly. Awkward silence returns. She starts the car, and immediately Will regrets how they adjusted the seat. Now, rather than being crushed at the sides, his head is so precariously near the roof that every pot hole, of which there are plenty, sends him slamming upwards. "Geez…" he mutters, rubbing his head after the first time when Lizzie has thoughtfully stopped. She looks up, and tries hard not to laugh. She is not terribly successful.

"It's not funny," he growls, and adjusts the seat again. He is right back where he started, squashed in the front, arms pinned to his sides. He groans, and Lizzie bites her lip.

"So," she says, "which is the lesser of the two evils? Concussion or, what, _peine forte et dure_?"

He glowers at her. "That's great. Now she's insulting me in French."

"Law French actually, but who's counting?"

He glares at her for a second then, rubbing his head again, finds himself laughing. "Fine," he says. "This will be fine." He glances back at her and laughs again. "Only two more hours. Two hours…" he mutters to himself.

She starts the car again. "Wow. We really have left an impression."

"On my head, or…?"

Lizzie grins, narrowly avoiding another pot hole. "I meant the emotional scars, but I'm sure your skull will also remember us."

He rubs his neck, smiling slightly, very much resigned.

"That and probably your spine after sleeping on the roll away."

"No, actually that was pretty good." He shrugs at her glance of surprise. "I have slept on some pretty terrible beds in my time."

She raises her eyebrows. "Really? You who has lived in Washington, London, Oxford…"

He smiles. "I've lived there. Doesn't mean I lived anywhere fancy."

"Really? Even in Oxford?"

"Especially in Oxford. Academic excellence and a decent mattress don't appear to go hand in hand."

She smiles. "Maybe you should lobby for _that_ in this campaign."

"Maybe we should."

Silence returns to the car, but at least now it isn't so icy. It is companionable. Almost.

* * *

**I'm sorry it has been so long! It was a combination of being busy and FanFiction crashing on me. Hopefully, it won't happen again. Oh, and thank you for all my lovely reviews. You're too kind. Really.**


	6. Political Hotshot

**Political Hotshot with a Lucky Rainbow Skydancer My Little Pony**

"Hello?"

"Janey, is that you?"

"Mmm."

"Has someone smacked you in the face?"

"No. I'm just a bit sick."

"How sick?"

"Oh you know…"

"No, Janey, I don't. How sick are you?"

A pause. "I think I have a fever, and I'm feeling quite rough, but I'll be fine. Really Liz…"

"Have you taken anything?"

"I don't think I have anything to take. I forgot to re-stock after I gave it all to Steve when he was ill."

"You're too nice. Can't he go out and get stuff for you?"

"He's busy. We're all pretty busy right now. There's a big event coming up at the end of the week and I need to be there, and so everyone's going a bit mad."

"Honey if you're so sick you can't get out of bed, what good are you going to be?"

"It's fine, really Bethy, I'm fine."

"You haven't called me that in ages…"

"Yeah, well…"

"…not since you had pneumonia. Jane! Do you have pneumonia again?"

"No, I'm fine. It's just a fever. Maybe a touch of flu, I don't know."

"And are you stuck in bed?"

"No. I worked all morning but then I…"

"Then what?"

"I kind of collapsed, a bit… but I'm fine…"

"Where are you staying?"

"Bethy, you don't need to come."

"Where?"

"The Drake, in Chicago."

"OK."

"I'll be fine. I'll just sleep tonight and tomorrow…"

"You'll be fine? Yeah, OK. Well if you got sick because you wore the stupid thin jacket in October, _in_ _Chicago,_ then I'm blaming Mom."

"I'd think my wearing that jacket in October here, was probably more my fault than anyone else."

"It was that wasn't it? I told you…"

"I was sick already. It was my own stupid fault." Another pause. "Beth, I think I need to go."

"Are you going to throw up?"

Yet another pause. "I don't know."

"Sheesh, Jane. You're an idiot when it comes to being sick and I am definitely coming up there."

"Seriously. I'll be fine."

"Yeah, after a blood transfusion."

"Lizzie…"

"OK. Well get some rest. I'll talk to you soon."

"You're not coming are you?"

"I'll promise nothing. Make Steve go get you some medicine, all right?"

"Yeah, maybe."

"Jane, you are the worst patient ever." She pauses. "I love you."

"Me too. Speak to you soon."

"Yeah OK. Bye."

"Mm. Bye."

* * *

"What kind of retarded political mind gets her _sister_ to come and look after her? What is she, six?"

Caroline is picking at a salad in the largely deserted restaurant. Unhappily, despite the fact that there were many tables free, many far, _far_ away from me, she sat down here, and launched into a scathing attack on Jane Bennet. Not for the first time.

"From what she said" I manage, between my sandwich and reading briefing notes, "it sounds like she told her not to come."

Caroline rolls her eyes. "OK. Like she really said that."

"It's what Viv said."

Caroline scoffs, and then turns to examine the piece of avocado speared on her fork. "Does this look fresh to you?"

It feels like I've had a constant headache for weeks. Even the slightest exposure to Caroline brings on a stabbing pain in my eye. Resisting the temptation to pelt her with bread rolls, I look. It is indiscernible from every single solitary piece of avocado that I've ever seen. "I don't know." And I don't care, but according to Charles, this isn't the answer to anything Caroline asks. Apparently we have unresolved sexual tension. Apparently I might have to kill myself.

* * *

The knock at the door is followed by a groan, the sound of stumbling, and then finally the emergence of Jane, dressed in the bottom half of her beautiful navy suit, the top half of her pyjamas and Yale sweats. Disgustingly, she still somehow doesn't look all that unattractive.

"Hey there, Fozzie."

Jane winces, and leans in the doorway. "I thought I told you not to come."

Lizzie shrugs. "I thought you sounded like you were six again."

She frowns. "That's no way to speak to a political hot-shot."

Lizzie shoulders her bag, and grins. "Yeah? Do many political hot-shots travel with their lucky rainbow-skydancer My Little Pony?"

Jane smiles, and rubs her forehead. "Yeah, well…"

Lizzie laughs and pulls her in for a hug. "You look like death. Come on." And she pushes her back into the room.

* * *

"Is she paying for her own room here? She had better not be leeching off of us!"

Caroline is still at it. Charles has arrived, and he shoots me an unreadable look. Then, he turns back to Caroline. "No. She's got her own room. One of the few that we haven't taken over."

"Well…" Caroline sighs, and turns back to prodding the few now limp pieces of lettuce left on her plate. "Did you see her? In the lobby, with her hair and jeans? She looked like she'd hitch-hiked her way here. Does no one know how to travel anymore?"

Charles is fighting his ever present battle of sticking up for one person whilst not slamming Caroline. He frowns. "She _did_ come by bus. I mean, it's pretty hard to look fresh as a daisy after, what, eight hours?"

"It's more like ten" I mutter, trying to finish the briefing notes, failing spectacularly.

"See?" he says. "Ten hours. That's a hideous journey."

Caroline shrugs. "I'm just saying." She turns to me. I try not to catch her eye. It doesn't work. "You wouldn't want your sister to act like that, would you Will?"

I'm torn. I desperately want to say 'yes, of course I would'. It wouldn't be completely true though. Damn my honesty. "I wouldn't want her to if I had already asked her not to…" Lame, lame, lame.

"Which you said she had!" Caroline is triumphant.

Charles steals my coffee, takes a sip, and then grimaces. It's not my fault it was cold. "Well I think it's charming," he says, stealing my glass of water to wash out the taste. "She travelled for hours just to look after her sister. I mean," he continues, attempting to ingratiate Caroline, "my sister wouldn't cross the road for me, let alone several state lines!"

It hasn't worked. Caroline looks sour. "Well I think it's highly unprofessional." She finally puts down her fork, gathers her things, and stands up. "I'm going to go and check over those press releases that Jane was supposed to have done. Hopefully she hasn't infected them too badly."

As she walks away, Charles slumps. "She's brilliant politically, she's brilliant politically…" he chants, muttering.

"She's a pain in the ass."

He grins. "That too." He looks up. "Would you really not want George to do that for you?"

I shrug. "I don't know."

He raises his eyebrows. "Well," he says, standing up and stretching, "you'd do it for her." With that, he walks off, and leaves me alone in blissful silence.

* * *

"Please let the restaurant be open," I mutter to myself. It's a bad habit, which has stuck over the years. Somewhere between praying and wishing, my ten year old mind decided that asking (politely) out-loud for things would make them happen. An unfortunate, or rather fortunate string of coincidences means that now I do it automatically. Yet again it works.

"Please let it be empty."

This one doesn't. And how. Will Darcy is sitting in the corner, leaning his head on one hand, scribbling something across sheaves of paper. He glances up and freezes.

I find myself waving, or at least that kind of salute thing. The grown up version of the waggling hand, the excited effort of making your hand blur. He smiles. Almost.

"Can I get you anything Ma'am?"

This has only started happening recently. Only a few years ago it would be 'Miss'. It would be a kindly old man, who looked a lot like some kind of grandfather crossed with Santa. Now, it's adolescent boys, calling me Ma'am. I just about manage not to smack him in the face.

"I couldn't have scrambled eggs and toast and coffee, could I?"

"Well, that's really the breakfast menu Ma'am and…" He freezes at my badly concealed murderous expression. He doesn't realise that it's at the name. He seems to believe it's because of his denial of eggs. "I'll see what I can do M…"

"Thank you" I interrupt, and drop into the nearest chair, thankfully not _too_ close to Will Darcy.

He looks up, and raises his eyebrows. "Ma'am?"

The rat was listening the whole time. I grimace. "When did waiters stop being genial old men?"

"When you left the land of make believe?" He smiles slightly to himself, and then turns back to his papers.

I sigh, and enjoy the silence for a good few minutes. Finally, he drops his pen, and leans back. "You had a long journey."

"Yeah." My neck is still creaking from sitting still that long.

"How long are you staying?"

I haven't even thought about this yet. All I asked Dad for was a few days. "I don't know. As long as Jane needs me."

"How bad is she?"

I'm genuinely surprised at this constant barrage of questions. Except he's not being confrontational. For once. "Not as bad as I feared, but, you know. Bad enough."

He frowns for a second, gathers up his things, then comes and sits at my table. "Why did you come?"

Does he really care? Is he just asking in the hope that I'll be gone by day break? The guy is an irritating enigma wrapped up in an annoying mystery. "Jane is a terrible patient. Her idea of 'sick' is a normal person's idea of on-death's-door."

He smiles. "Sounds familiar."

"Well," I say, "last time that she didn't feel 'all that great' she had pneumonia." I shrug. "She can't be trusted to look after herself."

He nods. "I heard she collapsed."

"And then no doubt tried to continue working."

He shrugs. "It _is _a competitive field. You don't get anywhere unless you work hard."

"There's working hard and then there's working yourself to death."

He nods slowly. "Try telling that to Charles."

The terrified looking waiter reappears. With shaking hands, he gives me my eggs and coffee. "Thank you," I call after him. He wasn't bad after all. Just mildly insulting. Anyway. "He works too hard?" I ask Will.

He nods again. "He's doing the jobs of about four people, and much as I try and take as much as possible, some of it he just won't relinquish."

"Like what?"

He groans. "Speech writing. Stupid, freaking…" He pauses, and smiles resignedly. "No one's good enough for him."

"Didn't he write the State of the Union?"

Will grimaces. "That's the one _he_ throws in my face."

"Well of course he would," I say, trying not to spit eggs at him. It's not like I want him to find me attractive, but it would be a bonus if he didn't leave, disgusted, with egg in his ear. "I mean," I continue, "it's his thing. Why would he read a speech someone else wrote for him, if he can write better?"

Will looks at me, very hard. "Are you two in cahoots?"

His hard expression is marred by his choice of words. "Cahoots?"

"You know what I mean."

"The word, yeah. The whole sentence? Not so much."

He sighs, waves at the waiter, and says, "coffee please. Very, very strong." He isn't mean but he does have that authoritarian I-could-have-you-taken-down-by-the-Swiss-guard thing going on. The poor guy looks, if possible, even more scared. "Where was I?" he says.

"You were about to explain to me why Charles Bingley and I may, or may not, be in 'cahoots'."

He rolls his eyes. "Oh. That." He starts to rub his neck, and I suddenly notice how tired he looks. "It's exactly his argument, the whole 'I could do it better' thing."

"So what's the problem?" I ask. "Find someone who writes well."

Will rolls his eyes. "I've found him people who write 'well'. I've found him a ton of decent writers. They're just not good enough."

"They'd get better."

"You think I haven't told him that?" He sounds beyond exasperated. The waiter returns, with the coffee, and having put it down in front of a murderous looking Will, practically runs for the kitchen. As if emerging from a dream, he suddenly sees the coffee and looks around, surprised. "Where's the waiter?"

I smile. "Probably crying into the lobster bisque."

"Oh." He wraps his hands around the coffee and sighs. "Well, anyway, Charles is terrified of a speechwriter screwing up even just one speech and giving the media one idiotic sound-bite."

I pause. "You wouldn't let that happen, would you?" It pains me to concede this to him, but much as the guy annoys me, he does appear to be good at his job.

He looks at me as if I'm crazy. "No. Of course I wouldn't." His look is pretty scathing. So is his tone actually, but who's keeping count? He sighs. "But, you know, I say that, and yet you see people getting up on stage, making massively stupid speeches." He pauses, and takes a sip of his coffee. "You ever heard Zav Barker?"

I groan. "Oh. Yeah." I push my plate aside and tear apart the toast. "I kind of see Charles's point."

Will smiles, ever so slightly. "Yeah. Well, anyway. Until I find him his very own Toby Ziegler, or in fact actually persuade Toby to work for him, Charles is writing his own stuff."

I drop my toast origami in favour of coffee. "Other people do, don't they? I mean, I've heard that Saul Zimmerman is writing is own stuff."

Will stiffens. "Zimmerman?"

"Mm," I say from the depths of my coffee cup.

He looks at me, hard and cold. "Well," he says, any possibility that he is a normal, functioning person, gone. "He probably only writes the high profile ones. Or just polishes ones written for him. Remarks to, you know, whoever at some small place…he probably only sees them two minutes before." He stands up, drains his coffee, and picks up his things. "I hope your sister is feeling better soon."

What did I do? It's a good thing that only Charlotte appeared to find him attractive. For my money, the dude is a psycho. "Yeah. OK."

He nods, curtly, and walks out, leaving me alone with cold scrambled egg remains, an explosion of toast crumbs, and cold coffee, in an empty and chilly restaurant. If Jane doesn't die of this cold, I may have to kill her.


	7. Gruntled

****

Gruntled

"Will!"

"Excuse me one moment," he says quickly into the phone, then, resignedly, looks up at Charlie.

"Your phone isn't working."

"I'm on it."

"Ah." He leans against the doorway. "Do go on."

Will rolls his eyes, and turns back to the phone. "Sorry about that. Yes?...Yes, fine. OK, I'll sort it out. OK, thanks…bye." He drops the phone. "What can I do for you?"

Charlie grins. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine, Dr Phil," say Will. Suddenly a wary expression crosses his face. "Why? What have you done?"

He feigns innocence. "Why do I have to have done something? This isn't the kind of respect that a Senator deserves!"

Will rolls his eyes and begins sorting through the explosion of papers over the table. "Charles, I think the state of my respect for you would be much better if it weren't for the fact that when we first met, you were incredibly drunk."

Charlie grins again. "I'm a charming drunk. Leave me alone."

"You came to me!"

"Oh, yeah." He saunters into the room, and drops into the chair. "So," he says. "I have an idea, and I wanted to find out your mental state before I proposed it."

Will narrows his eyes. "Why? What is it?"

"Now William. Are you, you know, disgruntled?"

Will grimaces, and starts to rub his tired neck. "Can't you just tell…" He sees Charlie's blithe grin, and gives up. "I'm not, what was it, disgruntled?"

"Are you, in fact, gruntled?"

"Charles…" His tones are now warning of imminent death.

"Fine," says Charlie, and leans back. "Now you have to be balanced about this. It is on one side, probably not the best news for you."

"This isn't the best way to get me on side."

"Yeah, but on the other hand, you will be very pleased. _Very_ pleased." He nods, grinning, looking like some kind of children's entertainer.

Will groans. "Just tell me. This is torturous."

"I want to ask Lizzie to join the speech writing staff."

Will freezes for a second. "But…you don't have a speech writing staff. I fired them."

"Yes," he says. "She would _be_ the speech writing staff."

"Lizzie Bennet. Jane Bennet's sister, Lizzie?"

"Yes."

The stabbing headache has returned. "But why?"

Charlie settles comfortably in his seat, his feet up on Will's desk. "Well," he begins, "when we were at their house, I happened to see her first editorial for the _Sewanee Purple_, framed in the hall, and it was good Will, I mean, _good._"

"What a great orator you are."

Charlie rolls his eyes. "I'm serious. Look, she was writing like I used to write."

Will leans back. "It was an editorial Charles, not a speech."

Charlie looks like a little boy with his hand caught in the cookie jar. "I've um…it just happened to come up in conversation with Jane last week that Lizzie worked for the Mayor of Pulaski in communications, and then did a year with the Governor of Tennessee."

"Who, Pelloux?"

"Yeah."

Will rubs his eyes, tiredly. "No doubt," he says from behind his steepled fingers, "you have had everything she has ever written sent to you."

Charlie looks even more guilty. He grins, and shrugs. "Highlights. I had some staffer sift through them and gave me the important ones."

Will doesn't reply. His eyes are closed. He leans back and breathes heavily.

"She's good. _Really_ good, Will. Miles ahead of the jokers you left on my desk."

"You trust her not to screw you over with a dumb speech?"

Charlie shrugs again. "I think so."

"We know nothing about her."

Charlie grins. "Well _you _might not, but I know lots." Will groans, but Charlie continues. "And anyway, we trust her sister."

"No Charles, you have the hots for her sister. Very different."

"Hey!" says Charles, hands out in front of him, thumbs angled back at his chest. "Come on. Future president here."

Will holds up a finger. "You did not just say that. You did _not…_go and appease the thing atop the whatever…"

Charlie rolls his eyes. "You have spent way too much time with Josh Lyman."

Will remains pointing, a stern school-marmish expression on his face. "Charles…"

"Will?"

Will slumps back as a debilitating wave of realisation crashes down on him. "You're going to hire her anyway aren't you, no matter what I say."

Charlie shrugs. "I _am_ the future…"

"NO. Stop right there."

"You are a superstitious girl."

"Your voters wouldn't be pleased that you're using 'girl' as an insult."

"How is 'my voters' not angering the thing high atop the whatever?"

Will shrugs. "I don't know. I don't make the rules."

Charlie leans forward, frowning. "Why don't you like her?"

"Who?"

Charlie groans. "Will! Lizzie. Lizzie Bennet."

"Oh. I don't know. I don't _not_ like her, I just…I don't know. She bugs me."

A raised eyebrow. "She bugs you?"

"Yeah, you know." He rubs his forehead, trying to ease away the grumbling headache that still survives. "She just gets in my head and…I don't know. It's like having a mosquito, buzzing round you, all the time, you know?"

Charlie leans back in wonderment. "I don't know why you aren't my speechwriter."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Oh."

Charlie watches Will for a second, and then smiles. "I think I was wrong about you."

"What about?"

"Caroline."

Will looks up blankly for a second, and then laughs. "I could have told you that a long time ago."

"Yeah" says Charlie. "You and Lizzie have got much better chemistry."

"WHAT?"

Charlie stands up. "Yeah. Who'd a thunk it?" His smile widens to a grin, mainly at Will's horrified expression. "OK, well good. That's all settled."

Will looks dazed. The tiny yellow birds are almost visible whizzing in a circle around his head. "What is?"

"Lizzie. Working here." Charlie leans forward and pats Will's shoulder. "You going to be all right?"

Will sighs a sigh of tornado inducing proportions. "Sure." He rubs his eyes again, and leans back. "But I'm not telling Caroline."

Charlie all but waltzes to the door. "Oh Will," he says, shaking his head. "Half the motivation for hiring Lizzie is the promise of Caroline's face when I tell her." He grins, and sashays out the door.

The sharp crack as Will breaks the pencil in his hands brings him back to his senses. "Oh hell," he breathes and drops his head to the desk.

* * *

My room has developed that smog which is only achieved by combining congestion relief with closed windows, drawn curtains, and chicken soup. It's not exactly unpleasant. On the contrary, there's something incredibly comforting about it. Also, the light bulbs appear to be faulty, and emitting a remarkably small amount of light. Therefore my bed is the only illuminated part of the room. Every thing else is in dim shadow. This, too, is comforting. It's like the light from the Christmas tree and the fire; dim, but soothing. Lizzie has arrived, and having forced me back to bed, is on sitting on the end of the bed, her feet tucked under the end of the blankets.

"But why me?" she keeps asking. "It's so weird!"

"It's not weird," I croak out. "You're good."

She looks stern. "Stop talking. You're supposed to be resting."

"So you don't require any answers?"

She smirks. "This is how I like it best. Me talking. You unable to answer, and just nodding."

I take a sip of tea. "Or shaking my head vehemently."

"Never," she says, and grins. "You're too nice to disagree with me."

I raise an eyebrow. "Liz, I distinctly remember saying 'Oh honey, no. Not blue eye shadow'."

"That's just advice..."

"I would have tackled you to the ground on the way out if I had to."

She grins again. "Fine. You rarely disagree with me."

"I thought that Jonathan Cake should have been Snape."

She shakes her head. "I'll let you off, because you're ill and possibly delusional, but just know, when you're better, we're having an Alan Rickman retrospective to prove that you're wrong."

I slide further under the covers, my tea still in hand. I'm actually feeling a little better at last, although to admit that I was feeling better to Lizzie would be, conversely, to admit that I had been ill, which would result in her doing some kind of victory war dance around the room, which my general headache and tired eyes couldn't cope with yet. I nod. "All right."

Lizzie's eyes narrow. "You want me to go?"

"No, no," I say, from behind layers of floral material. "Stay. Your voice will send me off to sleep."

She kicks me, albeit gently, under the covers. "Your nice face hides the fact that you are in fact, mean," she says, and grins. "I couldn't bear it if you were actually as sugar-coatedly, ass kissingly nice as you would sometimes appear."

"You just said I was too nice to disagree with you!"

She shrugs. "You proved me wrong. And," she adds, "it doesn't mean that you aren't the same girl who told Billy Collins I should go with him to homecoming." Her eyes narrow. "It was yet another 'oh Lizzie, you're so lucky to have such a lovely, thoughtful sister' moment. They all thought you were being kind and matchmakerly to your unattractive dolt of a sister. Instead," she says, bitterly, "it was you being mean."

I have to slide down further so that Lizzie can't see how happy I am at the memory of Billy Collins, on one knee in the middle of the cafeteria, asking her to the dance. Precious memories like that keep me warm at night. I shrug. "I can't help it that people think I'm nice."

Lizzie grimaces. "You _are_. That's the problem. You're just mean to me."

I shrug again. I can't deny it.

Her scowl drops, and she shakes her head, despairingly. "I heard from him the other day."

"Who? Billy Collins?"

She nods, her chin resting on her knees. "Except he signed himself '_Bill'._ He wanted to meet up."

"How did he get your email?"

She shudders slightly. "I have no idea. Probably facebook. Or Charlotte, I guess. She kept in touch with him."

I take another sip of tea, fighting the urge to fall asleep. "Are you going to?"

She raises an eyebrow. "What, meet?" She shrugs. "Not now. I had told him I was _busy_ anyway..."

"Busy?" I ask.

She scowls. "Would you want to meet with him?"

"Fair enough."

She wraps her arms round her knees. "I've exchanged a few emails with him."

I'm enjoying this, despite the call of my pillow. "Long, romantic ones?"

She kicks me again. "Not from me, all right?" She grimaces. "His _are_ long though, and all about the memories of school and how close we were, apparently."

I'm _really _enjoying this. "Maybe he's hoping you'll hook up."

Lizzie's expression is sour, to say the least. "He can hope," she says, and shakes her head, slowly. Finally she looks up. "I should go," she says. "You need rest, and I've got one heck of a round trip tomorrow." She bites her lip for a second, just like she used to.

"Hey," I say, and kick her, gently, through the sheets. "You really are good. They wouldn't have hired you if they didn't think that."

"Yeah?" she asks, and nods. "OK." She gets up, kisses my cheek, and then straightens up the bedding where she was sitting. "You sleep well, all right? I'm just a phone call away if you need anything."

I put down my tea on the side, and nod. "All right," I say. "Thank you."

She rolls her eyes, and kisses my cheek again. "It's too late now Janey. I know you're mean. Now Charlie...it's not too late for him." With that, she grins and waltzes out of the room, and I settle down to sleep.

* * *

**Thanks for all the lovely reviews guys. Keep em coming.**


	8. I'm not repeating myself

**I'm not repeating myself, I'm not repeating myself**

"You travelled ten hours home, just to tell us that you're going back to Chicago?" Francesca Bennet has reached near caterwauling levels of noise. Soon only dogs and bats will hear her. "What's there for you? You certainly weren't interested in any of the men, and I doubt they were..." She stops herself, a mother with opinions, knowing what will happen if those opinions are shared. She has shared a few times too many to not know the consequences. Fran takes a deep breath. "I mean," she begins again, slower, "I thought you didn't want to get back into politics."

Lizzie turns her coffee cup between the palms of her hands, scraping a circle on the kitchen table. "I didn't," she says, and shrugs. "But this guy is different. Jane was right. He's good, and he means what he says. He's making me start to have faith in politics again."

Fran rolls her eyes. "Don't you set your cap at him young lady. Jane saw him first."

Lizzie eyes her mother with an air of undisguised disbelief. "It's not like that," she begins, but stops trying when Fran chuckles, patting her hand.

"All right sugar, if you say so." She rests her hand on Lizzie's a gives her a consoling smile. "There's someone else out there for you though honey. I'm sure of it...although," she adds after musing for a second, "not that Darcy character. He was as miserable as your Aunt Debbie."

Lizzie smiles involuntarily. "Yeah, well, he was in a bad mood that night."

Rex, ambles in having finished cleaning up in the scullery, keeping one ear on the kitchen. "Is he ever in a good mood?" he asks, smiling slightly.

"Rarely," concedes Lizzie.

"Well he certainly didn't dance with anyone. Not like young Mr Bingley there." Fran shrugs and wipes up crumbs off the table. "I'm just saying."

"I know," says Lizzie. "I really want to do this though." She turns to her father. "Do you mind Daddy? I know I said I'd only be a few days but…"

He silences her with a smile. "Sweetheart, if you've found what you want to do at long last, then you go chase it."

"Shame it turns out you were doing what you wanted three years ago, but you know…" mutters Fran, scrubbing at an old coffee stain on the wood.

Lizzie sighs. "I hated that job Mom, you know that."

"And so why won't you hate this one too?"

"It's completely different," she says, having planned these points all the way home. "It's with different people, a different campaign, and a completely different mind set."

"I'm just saying," starts Fran, "you could have been working all this time, have a nice house, maybe even have met yourself some young politician, just like Jane."

Lizzie rubs her forehead and marvels yet again at her mother's ability to miss the point. "OK," she concedes, deciding it will just be quicker to agree. "Well if it's all right, I think I'll go and see Charlotte for a bit."

"You're only just home…" begins Fran, but she's cut off by Rex's "OK sweetheart, we'll see you later."

Lizzie escapes by the side door and takes a deep, calming breath, before getting into the car.

* * *

"I will show you the email," says Charlotte, and picks up her laptop. Typing and clicking furiously, she brings up her inbox. "See!" she says triumphantly. "'_Remind me never to go back into politics'_."

"That's not my voice."

"'_Chain me to your radiator if you have to'._"

"Seriously, Charley, when did I become, I don't know, some kind of breathy cheerleader?"

" '_They're a bunch of blood sucking ass kissing hypocritical douche bags'_…"

"Oh I might have said that."

"… '_and I want nothing to do with them'_."

"Yeah, well…" Lizzie slumps down onto the wicker chair on Charlotte's porch. She fiddles with the lacey edging to the cushions, and sighs. "Am I making a massive mistake?"

Charlotte smiles, and shakes her head. "No. Look," she says, "this may be test, which I am no doubt failing, but you loved writing for the Mayor…"

"Yeah I did."

"…and it was just that _ass_…what was it? '_Blood_ _sucking, ass kissing, hypocritical douche bag_' Marco Pelloux that made you hate it."

"The guy was a tool."

Charlotte raises an eyebrow. "From everything you said, he sounded worse than that, but all right."

"He was a massive disappointment, that's all."

Charlotte shrugs. "Enough to make you give up on all of them, remember?" She sighs, and shrugs again.

They are silent for a moment, and then, finally, Lizzie smiles. "You think this is a good thing?"

"Yes," says Charlotte, and pats her foot. "I do. Now let's go out and celebrate."

* * *

Charlotte's initial ideas for celebrating only work on the premise that they are both only just twenty one and enjoying new found alcoholic freedom. Unfortunately the combination of the restrictions of small town life, and the hard fact that they are, in fact, twenty-seven, results in something more akin to their fathers' idea of a night out, also known as drinking in _Al's Bar_.

"When did Mackie's close down?"

Lizzie grins. "Years ago Charley! It involved a fire and a girl getting brained with a falling light, and something about vermin."

Charlotte sighs. "This sucks. I thought we still had plenty of places to go."

"There are places," concedes Lizzie, who adds quickly, at the sight of Charlotte gathering her things, "but they are hideous and I for one am not hanging out at the site of Missy Colver's conception."

Charlotte drops her things back onto the bar. "Ew," she says, grimacing. "I forgot all about that. All right then." She settles at her bar stool, shakes her head despairingly at Lizzie and then calls, "Al? Can we have some beer here?"

Al looks up. "You two old enough to be in here?" he calls.

"Have been for six years, and you know it."

He grins. "Just wanted to make you say it Charley," he says, and winks. "Hey, Don. Come serve these nice ladies."

Al's nephew Don appears from behind the beaded curtain of the office, and smiles shyly at Lizzie and Charlotte. "Hey there," he says. "What can I get you?"

"Couple of beers please," says Charlotte, smiles as he gives them to her, happily hands over the change, and then watches him vanish behind the curtain.

Lizzie narrows her eyes, plotting. "You should ask him out."

Charlotte whips round. "What? Don Zamzow? Are you serious?"

Lizzie shrugs. "He's cute."

Charlotte shakes her head. "Not my type. You go after him."

"No," says Lizzie slowly. "I'm going back to Chicago tomorrow."

Charlotte shrugs. "Oh well. So," she says, "to you, and your new job."

They clink bottles, creating an aura of congratulatory good luck, and at that very moment there comes the sound of a clearing throat and "Elizabeth Bennet? Are you…you are aren't you?"

* * *

**Yes. Something akin to a cliffhanger. And, maybe some plot. Who knew? ****Now, since you've all waited so patiently, and I forgot to post before I went on holiday, and this chapter is surprisingly short (I had been congratulating myself for freakishly being able to write a consistent 2,500ish. Not so much any more), I think I will go and post another one. Also, because you leave me nice reviews, and I do so enjoy that. **


	9. Optimus Prime

**Optimus Prime would be so disappointed**

I'd like to think that I'm the kind of person who could pull a really smug expression and say '_judge not, lest ye be judged'_ and, you know, not need a good slapping for it. I certainly imagined, when I was nine and adored Optimus Prime, that one day people would point me out as that girl who did something (the details were always kind of hazy) which showed her great kindness and open heart, how she never judged anyone else, how she would not just look at someone and feel nauseous, just because of the way they smiled. I guess some small part of that fantasy continued right up to now, because only a few seconds after my first glimpse at Bill Collins in about ten years, my first thought was _Optimus Prime would be so disappointed_.

"Elizabeth Bennet? Are you…you are aren't you?"

I turn round on my bar stool and manage to flash exactly none of Al's patrons, no mean feat when dressed in an obscenely short skirt that Charley has pressed upon me. Before me stands an amazing marvel which all film make-up artists and CGI experts would do well to study: the face of a seventeen year old plastered onto the very-much-let-go body of one ten years older. I manage to stop myself from swearing. Just.

"Yes," I say slowly, and think about holding out my hand. I restrain myself until it is entirely necessary.

"It's me!" he says, in a revelatory tone. It appears that I should be pleased. "Bill! Bill Collins! I emailed you, remember?"

"Oh," I say, rather weakly. "Of course. Now I remember." I turn and gesture to Charley. "You remember Charlotte Lu?"

He turns a sickly smile on her. "Yes. Little Charlotte Lu. I'm not sure I would have recognised you!"

"I've let myself go, have I?"

His smile flashes through panic and right on to saccharine. "No! Not at all. I merely meant that you are so much more sophisticated, elegant, suave…" His grasp of synonyms is shaky. He trails off.

"It's fine," she says, and holds out a hand, voluntarily I might add. "You don't look any different," she says, somewhat charitably.

He smiles. "Why thank you! Now," he says, glancing at the relatively full bottles in our hands. "Can I get you ladies anything?"

I am about to decline, waving my full beer in his face, when Charlotte cuts in. "Thank you. That's very kind. A Martini, Liz?"

"Sure?" I say, slowly. This night is getting weird. I suspect it's going to get weirder.

"Great. Two Martinis please, Bill."

He smiles and saunters, actually saunters, down the bar to attract Al's attention. I notice that Al resolutely continues chatting to someone else. It makes me smile before I turn and manage to stop myself from shaking Charley. "What the hell are you doing?" I ask in what may be termed 'a furious whisper'. It certainly feels furious.

"Free Martinis Lizzie! Plus, he seems quite nice."

Seriously. She turns down sweet, shy, lovely Don, and yet accepts the drinks of Bill, who may possibly be related to some amphibian.

"Nice!" I say. "Nice? The guy is weird."

She shrugs. "Yeah, but he's friendly. He seems to like you!" She grins, elbowing me in the ribs and I shudder.

"No idea why," I say. "I'm not exactly encouraging him."

"I'll say," says Charley, and shakes her head at me, as if she's disappointed. "You could be a bit nicer."

I stare at her for a second, feel the prod of Optimus on my conscience, and sigh. "Fine," I say. "I'll be nicer."

"All the way to nice?"

I grimace. "I'm promising nothing."

Bill Collins reappears, and smiles a sickly smile. "So," he says, "what were we discussing?"

Fighting the urge to say 'male pattern baldness' I am momentarily grounded to silence. Thankfully, Charley sweeps in.

"Oh, I was congratulating Lizzie on her new job!"

He flings his arms out, having a near miss with Charley's Martini.

"Congratulations Elizabeth," he crows. "And what is this job? I hope not far away?"

"Speech writing for the Charles Bingley campaign?" I say, not really caring if he has heard of Charlie. "I'll be on the campaign trail, largely."

His face falls. "Oh, well, it sounds marvellous."

"Yeah." This job, the one that I am secretly thrilled about, has been reduced to a 'yeah'. This dude is sucking the life out of my last night at home.

"And what do you do, Bill?" asks Charley, ever the diplomat.

His smile becomes smug. "Ah, well," he begins, and I take a long sip of my Martini. It can only help. "I am soon to be a partner in _DBD Advertising._" He says it like we should know it.

"Oh great!" says Charley, faking it. "Congratulations. Where is that based again?"

"Nashville." He nods, smiling to himself. "It's a wonderful family firm. I'm so lucky…"

"Yeah." I'm going mad. Slowly, but surely.

He smiles. "It will be quite a commute now, though."

A chill passes through the air. Something is coming. Something bad. "Oh?" says Charley. "You don't live in Nashville?"

"I did. I had a wonderful apartment, but now my poor aunt has died, she left me Three Hills."

Charley turns to look at me, yet still answers him. "Really?" she asks, her eyes wide. "Three Hills?"

"Yes," he says, smiling all to broadly for a man who has just lost his aunt. "I believe the land joins onto your father's doesn't it Elizabeth?"

"Yes." I don't trust myself to say anything else. It is all slotting into place, like some massive logic puzzle. I can feel him watching me. "So," he says, "I have a big house, and lots of land, and nothing to do with it."

Charley is clearly trying to control herself, but her mouth is twitching. I'm not sure I can keep this up any longer. In fact, "maybe you should raise llamas," I say, and stand up. "Excuse me."

Don Zamzow is standing at the other end of the bar, and I walk towards him.

"Don!" I say cheerily, and lean in. "Please, for the love of my sanity, please," I say, in an undertone, "can I stay here and talk to you for a bit?"

He smiles, slowly. Geez, Charley's an idiot not to ask him out. "Sure," he says, and starts polishing glasses. "Giving that guy and Charlotte some time alone?"

"Yes," I say, "and when she yells at me later, you tell her that it was for my own good."

He smiles again. "It probably was," he says. "The way you were gripping that glass, you were about to have a nasty accident."

"I know!" I say. "Why can't he notice that?" I sigh. "I'm pretty sure he was about to ask me out."

"Why?"

"Why was I sure or why, oh why, would he think I'd go out with him?"

He pushes the dish of peanuts across the bar towards me, and then continues polishing. "The latter."

I grimace, and spare a glance for them at the other end, where they don't exactly appear to be missing me. I fight down a brief flicker of annoyance. I was, after all, about to jam a fork in the guy's neck. "He thinks he's doing me a favour, giving me a shot at the rich stud who lives next door."

"A stud, eh?"

"Well he clearly thinks so."

He puts down the glass and cloth, and leans on the bar. "But why would he think that you'd want to have a shot at him?"

"With a rifle, I would." I shrug and sigh. "His land borders ours. Presumably he's thinking that if we got married…" I grimace, "then my father's farm would be saved by having extra land for free, or maybe low rent? I don't know…" I glance back at them. "Charley seems to like him though."

Don smiles, and spots a regular ambling up to the bar. "He should be so lucky. For either of you" he adds, and then walks off down the bar.

I sigh. Stupid job taking me away. Stupid Charley not falling for lovely Don. Stupid Bill for…well, everything. I finish my Martini and wonder how early it would be lame to go home.

* * *

**So. That was a bit short too. Sorry about that. I think that they'll get longer from now on. Thanks again.**


	10. Use your charm

**Use your charm**

Sometimes I just love my job. There are days when it sucks. I mean, Muriel Snettle and her porcelain cat collection was dire, but then I'm pretty sure that the main reason that happened was that Cara was still annoyed that I forgot to phone her back. Anyway, that is all behind me, since a particularly fortuitous drink which I bought for the new political editor ended up, in the short run, with me in her bed, and now, in the long run, caught between two girls…women…whatever. They're hot. I don't really care about politically correct terms.

"Who are you?" asks the one who has just arrived, older, scruffier, clearly just come from riding.

"It doesn't concern you," calls the one on the veranda, still offering me a fine view of her cleavage as she leans forward.

She is shot a stern look, before older one turns to me again. "Sorry, I didn't catch who…?"

"George Wickham," I say, and hold out a hand. "I was looking for Lizzie Bennet." I shoot a look at the younger one. There's no way she's the one I'm looking for, but I wouldn't mind if it turned out…

"_I'm_ Lizzie," says the older one, and looks pointedly at the younger sister. "So it _does_ concern me."

The younger one pouts, and walks off inside, slamming a few doors for good measure.

"I'm sorry," says Lizzie. "She's a bit of a liability."

"It's fine," I say. "They often are at that age."

She raises an eyebrow. "She's twenty-one. More than old enough to know better." She shakes her head. "Anyway," she says, "what can I do for you?"

"I'm with _J. Russell Online_…?" I pause and wait for the customary "uh…what?"

"Yeah?" she says. I pause.

"You've heard of…"

"Yes, of course I have." She sighs, and smiles slightly. "It's been getting better this last year."

I smile back. "I think so."

She looks down at herself, and grimaces. "Look," she says, "can you give me a second to go and change? Right now I smell like horse."

"You don't to me."

She doesn't appear to be won over by compliments. Damn it. "Well, if you could wait here a second," she says, and gestures to the furniture on the veranda. "Sit down if you want." With that, she disappears through the door and runs upstairs. I drop into a wicker chair, and pull out the notes Jules prepared for me.

_Elizabeth 'Lizzie' Bennet, age 28; English Lit major at Sewanee, editor of the Sewanee Purple; communications staffer to Dory Velasquez, Mayor of Pulaski; senior communications staffer to Marco Pelloux, Governor of Tennessee; rumoured to be the new speech writer on Charles Bingley's Presidential campaign…_

"Wait" I mutter to myself. Not _that_ Charles Bingely, surely. "Damn it."

"Talking to yourself, son? Not a good sign."

I look up, and a man stands in front of me, the kind who chased me off his land when I was ten for having a go at cow tipping. He is tall, and broad, and could probably still take me.

"No sir," I say. Don't get on his wrong side, don't do it… I stand up and hold out a hand. "George Wickham."

He raises an eyebrow, not unlike his daughter, a minute before. "Rex Bennet," he says after an awkward pause, and then he shakes my hand, hard. Clearly he wants me to know that he could kill me, with or without a shovel.

"I'm here to interview your daughter, sir."

He leans back against the veranda railing and takes his hat off, passing it through his fingers. "Is that so? I've got five, but I'm guessing unless Lydia and Kit have committed some kind of felony…"

"It's Lizzie I'm here to interview."

He gives me a long look. "Yes," he says. "I thought so." He takes a deep breath and nods. "She knows you're here?"

"Yes sir."

He nods again, slowly, and suddenly his whole face lights up as Lizzie reappears at the doorway, hair slightly damp around the edges. "Hey!" she says, and grins at him. He ruffles up her hair, and then disappears into the house, and Lizzie drops onto the swing seat.

"Sorry that took so long," she says, as an old dog limps his way up the steps and along, to drop unceremoniously under the seat.

"Long?" I ask. "Most women I know would take five times that long just to change their shoes."

She grins, and starts to swing the seat, one foot on the dog. "So," she says. "What can I do for you?"

I shuffle my notes. "Well," I say. "I'm starting to research a piece on speech writers on the campaigns, and we've heard that you've just joined Charles Bingley's campaign."

She looks bemused. "How on earth did you hear that so fast?"

"Ah you know, people know people."

She shakes her head slowly. "Well, OK. Yeah, I have. I was offered the job two days ago."

"You were head hunted?"

She smiles. "Not exactly. My sister works on the campaign and got sick, and I was up there to visit her, when they offered it to me."

I pause in my note taking. "Right out of the blue?"

"Well," she says, "I think they had seen my writing when they were here for an event a month or so ago."

"Right," I say, and continue scribbling. "It has been speculated that whoever wrote for Charles Bingely would have to be pretty damn good given his own standards. Does this reflect on your writing?"

She laughs. "Oh, I don't know about that! He is an excellent writer, and it is an absolute honour for me to be asked to do this."

"Miss Bennet," I say, smiling, "this is no time to be modest."

"Lizzie," she says. "Please."

Man, this girl is...I don't know. Bewitching? She's got the brains and the warm smile, and those eyes. And now it turns out that she's a genius writer. Would it be a bad time to ask her to have my babies? Probably.

"Look," I say. "I've got a bunch of questions here, and I reckon you'd have really interesting answers to them…"

She blushes slightly, and shrugs.

"Is there any way I could take you to dinner, and continue this there?"

She sighs. Her shoulders actually drop. "I'd love to," she says, "but I have a flight booked in a couple of hours to go back up to Chicago."

"Oh."

"Yeah." She shrugs again. "Could we continue this over email, or phone or something?"

I sigh. I met the perfect woman, who incidentally has at least one shameless younger sister, which is never bad, and now she's flying away.

"I'm sorry," she says. "The taxi's due in, like ten minutes."

I think fast. This is the time for heroes, and I _am_ going to reach for the stars (thank you very much President Bartlett). "What if _I_ took you to the airport?"

"Sorry?"

I am coming off as such a girl. Sheesh. "I could take you. I've got a very nice, air conditioned jeep, and you know, if your flight is delayed I could continue the interview." I grimace. I really am coming off as such a girl.

"OK," she says, and smiles slightly. "That'd be nice."

Wait. "Really?"

"Yeah." She rolls her eyes, and smiles again. "Look, I need to go get my stuff, and say good bye. Wait here?"

"Sure," I say, and in a moment of pure genius, pull out a business card. "Here," I say. "Give this to your Dad or someone, just so they know who you're with."

She frowns slightly.

"You know," I say, panicking slightly. Was this actually a _bad _plan? "So that if anything should happen, they can call and check where we are."

She takes the card and looks at it for a second, flicking the card edges. "Is this a reflection on your ability to drive?"

I grin. "No."

"Good." She turns and walks into the house, and I slump against the seat. I am not going to screw this up. Not again.

* * *

"Well what do you know!" says Lizzie, and she sits down in the plastic chair again. "It _is_ delayed."

I hold out my hands as she narrows her eyes. "I didn't plan it!" I say, and smirk, involuntarily. "Plus," I add, "I wouldn't speculate about that kind of thing when there are police men striding round with massive dogs and guns and things. They don't find it particularly funny."

"Really," she says, and grins. She puts her feet up on the opposite seat. "Go on then," she says. "Ask me something else."

I flick through my notes. They are so much more extensive than they need to be for this piece. There's no point in telling her that though. "Uh…what do you think of Charles Bingley?"

She smiles. "He's great. He's a young, idealistic guy who believes that anything is possible. He's the kind of man who we could all do with having in the oval office."

If only she'd talk that way about me. "What about the campaign attracted you?"

"The honesty." She drums her fingers on the chair arm, thinking. "I mean, allegedly his chief of staff, Will Darcy? He'll only continue working there as long as they are entirely honest."

I freeze automatically. I never thought my face was so expressive but…

"Are you all right? Did I say something?"

I sigh. I can't come out of this well. "You've met Darcy?"

"Yeah," she says, "several times."

"What do you think of him?"

She smirks. "He doesn't make a great first impression."

Hope dawns. "What about the second one?"

"Oh, that's even worse."

I feel confident. "Don't expect it to get any better."

"Really?" she says, "you know him?"

I sigh. "Yeah," I say. "Since we were about eight, I guess."

She leans back. "Seriously?"

"Yep. We were next-door neighbours."

"I can't imagine him as an eight-year-old."

"Imagine him now, but shorter," I say.

She smirks. "OK. So I guess you never really got on?"

I swallow. "Oh, you know, I think his parents liked me a lot. My Dad cleared off when I was five, so Rhys kind of took me under his wing."

She nods.

"He promised to pay for my education. Anything I wanted to do. Anything at all. There was no way my Mom could do it alone, and he totally looked after us."

She nods again. OK.

"Well anyway, he died suddenly when we were about twenty-three, I guess. I was a year into my law degree, and Will decided that he wasn't going to support me any more, and pulled the money."

"What?"

I swallow again. "Yeah" I say. "I got a job at a local paper, just to pay the rent, and I discovered that I loved it, so I started this instead, and worked my way up."

She smiles slowly. "That's great but…I can't believe…" She shakes her head. "What an ass."

I smile. "Yeah, that's pretty much what I think." I sigh, relieved.

"He has a sister too, doesn't he?"

Oh crap. "Uh, yeah. She's called George too, confusingly."

She smirks. "Confusing."

"Yeah, well," I say, "she was only little when they moved to Washington, but I hear that she's becoming a lot like her brother."

"Shame," she says quietly.

"Yeah," I say.

A crackly voice comes over the loud speakers, announcing the arrival of Lizzie's flight. She smiles slightly, and stands up. "Well, it was nice to meet you."

I stand up and only now realise that she's not all that tall. "Don't you imagine this is the last time we'll meet" I say. "I'm not letting you go that easily."

She blushes, and smiles again. She will be my undoing. Her, or maybe Sienna Miller if I ever meet her, but that seems unlikely. Lizzie Bennet it is.

"OK," she says, a little unsurely, and sighs.

I can't resist kissing her, just on the cheek, but still. She sighs again, right by my face, and I forget that Miller girl.

"I've got to go," she says, gathers her things and walks through the gate. She stops and smiles back at me. I wave. "I'll see you soon," I call. And I will. I'm sure.

* * *

**To all my lovely reviewers: I tried going for some underwear analogy, but kept on coming undone, so I'll just say THANK YOU. You are too kind, and exceptionally supportive. Now keep 'em coming.**

**To katesie: explosions are coming. Honest. A chapter or two on, there's a doozie. I'm just quite a slow poster. And not a very succinct writer. But this will all change- at least, the posting rate. Hopefully. So please stick with it. And thank you. **

**To nourgelitnius: I'm so glad that I inspire a wish to watch the West Wing. If nothing else, I'm thrilled to achieve that. I watched one last night with Josh and Donna and...well anyway, thank you. Now, in my state of post-posting joy, I shall go and find the finest muffins and bagels in all the land.**


	11. Couldn't I just kill her?

**Couldn't I just kill her?**

Jane is suspicious the moment that she sees Lizzie again. She has that look again, the starry eyed, imperviousness to sleepiness. The twitching mouth, the smile which she tries to hide, and fails. Jane watches her with narrowed eyes for the first few hours of the day, as Lizzie buzzes around the suite of rooms they are using as offices. She disappears for a while into a meeting with Charlie, and then comes out looking a little more sober. Her game face on, she settles down to work, but when Jane's curiosity finally overcomes her and she brings lunch up to Lizzie, the dreamy look is back.

"So, who he is?"

She looks up suddenly, blinking like she has problems focusing. "How…I mean…" She closes her eyes, and rubs them, before looking at her sister again, who now is sitting opposite her desk, shoes slipped off, feet curled under her. "Who are you talking about?"

Jane snorts and opens her plastic container of salad. "All right," she says slowly. "Did you happen to meet anyone when you were at home?"

Lizzie narrows her eyes. "Why?"

"Just did you?"

"You'd better have brought me lunch too," Lizzie mutters, digging through the bag Jane dropped on her desk, and sighs as she comes across a burger. Slowly, deliberately, she unwraps it, and takes a first delicious bite before realising that not only is Jane still there, but she is still waiting for an answer.

"Lizzie!"

"Oh, right," she says, "anyone in particular?"

Jane rolls her eyes. "I was imagining of the male sex, but if there's something you'd like to tell me."

Lizzie quirks an eyebrow at her, and automatically answers, "no," followed a pause later by, "oh, wait…yes," with a slow smile, and then a sudden bolt of revulsion and, "oh, actually two."

Jane pauses in her salad. "Two?" she asks. "How very cosmopolitan of you." She grins.

"Yeah, well, you know one of them."

Jane frowns. "Really? Who?"

"Bill Collins."

Jane spits a mouthful of lettuce at her younger sister, who grimaces.

"Seriously, does your need to be genteel and ladylike around everyone mean that you have to necessarily be a heinous scummer around me?"

Jane grins and wipes her mouth. "Sorry. But Billy Collins?"

"Yeah. It turns out," she adds, "that ten years has done nothing for him."

"What does he look like?" Jane is enjoying this far more than she really should.

"Exactly as he did ten years ago, but paunchy."

Jane grimaces. "Oh."

"Yeah."

"I had hoped he'd be really hot."

"Yeah, not so much."

Jane grins again. "Oh well. What was he like?"

"Oh, perfectly nice."

Jane narrows her eyes. "Nice? That bad?"

Lizzie smiles slowly. "He meant well. And," she adds, "five hundred miles between us makes him seem more attractive."

Jane snorts just as Charlie walks in, and then proceeds to blush a deep red.

"Hi Lizzie, Jane…" She smiles slowly, emerging out of the beet red glow.

"Hey, anything we can do for you?"

He steps back. "No, no. I was just coming to check that you were settled in and had somewhere to get lunch…but I see that has been taken care of."

Jane blushes again. "Yeah, I just…yeah."

Lizzie watches with delight.

"Good," says Charlie. "Well I think Caroline was saying something rash about a drink later since we have somehow scheduled a night off…you'd both be welcome, I'm sure." He says it to both of them, and yet is locked in Jane's gaze. He stands still for a second, just smiling at her, before stepping, slightly stumblingly, back. "Well, I should be getting back. See you tonight." He walks into the doorframe, spins around grinning foolishly, and then walks off down the hall.

"So, who is he?"

Jane snaps out of the trance she was still in, gazing at the door, and frowns at Lizzie. "Who…? What are you…" Suddenly it dawns on her. "That's not funny."

"What's not funny? That you like Charlie?"

Jane doesn't smile. She looks confused. "It's not just…" she starts, almost whispering. "There's not just me or him to consider, you know?" She shrugs. "He's going to be important and everything he does is a political decision. I don't know…"

Lizzie leans forward. "Wait, you really like him. This isn't some crush or…you _really_…"

Jane shrugs again. "Yeah."

"Wow."

Silence hangs for a few minutes, and they both eat in the quiet. "OK," says Lizzie as she balls up the burger paper. "Well this has been lovely."

"Wait, you said there were two."

"Did I?"

"That innocent expression doesn't work on me." Jane says, eyes narrowed. "Who was the other one?"

"What other one?"

"Seriously Lizzie!" She throws her empty plastic container onto the desk. "The one that has had you mooning around here all day!"

"Actually mooning? As far as I remember, I have at no time removed my…"

"You know what I meant."

Lizzie grins. "Yes. But it's fun to annoy you."

"Hilarious," Jane dead pans. "Come on!"

Lizzie gives her a long look, and then sighs. "Fine. His name is George Wickham. He's a journalist, and he was interviewing me about working on this campaign."

"Really? And was he hot?"

"Jane!"

Jane shrugs. "Well was he?"

Lizzie glowers at her for a second, and then finally rolls her eyes, and smiles slightly. "Yes. He was gorgeous."

Jane grins. "Good. And was he _'nice'_?" she asks, complete with air quotes.

Lizzie shifts, a little uncomfortable to be discussing _her _love life. "Yes?" She sighs. "He was _really_ nice."

"Good." Jane stands up, and retrieves the papers and cartons. "Well then, I'll let you get back to work. Try not to be too distracted by the thoughts of hot reporters…" With that she waltzes out the door and back to her desk, smirking.

* * *

"I think Caroline wants to kill me."

She has one of the those backs that is as expressive as her face. She's standing at the bar, and I just know that she's mentally stabbing a voodoo doll. Of me. In the head. Except it isn't working because I feel great.

"Can't think why," says Will, dryly, as he simultaneously scrolls through websites on his laptop, and checks his messages on his Blackberry.

I shrug. "You'd think she'd know better. If I die, what happens to this campaign?"

Will looks up, thoughtful. "I don't know. Maybe it has to end?" He rolls his eyes and goes back to work.

"You're not as clever or funny as you think you are."

"You don't know how clever and funny I think I am."

He is in a good mood, why, I have no idea. It is, however, reasonably tortuous. He raises his eyebrows, abandons his Blackberry for a minute, and turns to the laptop. "Stackhouse is creating again."

I lean over. "About what?"

"The health bill."

I roll my eyes. "Again."

"Yeah." He continues scrolling through. "And Lou Thornton appears to be suffering from foot-in-mouth."

"Did you just say…?"

He gives me a sardonic look. "Foot _in_ mouth, Charles, not 'and'."

"Oh." I lean back and sigh. "I sure hope that Jane and Lizzie turn up, and soon."

Will follows my gaze to Caroline's back at the bar. "Because otherwise Caroline will be in a bad mood all night, for no apparent reason, and she can't be mean to Jane, and by extension, Elizabeth, because you have fantasies about marrying her?"

I whip round and consider firing him. Except he's right. Damn it. I sigh. "Why does she hate them so much?"

Will's face is so smug that for a moment, it is blinding. He shrugs. "They're pretty, they're nice…I don't know how women's minds work. Maybe they're competition?"

"Nice?" I say. "Nice? She's…" I pause, trying to find the word. I should be able to. Words are my thing, and yet, they fail me. "I don't know what she is."

Will rolls his eyes, clearly trying to ignore me, and scrolling through more news items. I ignore _him_. This is too important.

"She's lovely, and so…lovely."

"Wow. Great choice of words." Will isn't even looking at me. He's smirking as he types something.

"You're unbearable when you're in this kind of mood," I say, and shake my head.

Will offers up a rare grin. "Good." He turns back to the laptop, and rubs his hair as he scrolls down another page.

"I'm just saying…be wary. You wouldn't want something to accidentally drop on your head."

He raises an eyebrow, and grins again. "OK." His gaze drifts behind me, and he sighs, heavily. "Caroline's anger was justified after all," he says, and nods to the door, where Jane and Lizzie have just appeared. What with imminent revenge on Will, and Jane now walking towards me, _smiling_, this evening is looking up.

* * *

Caroline is sitting there, and looks like she has been sucking lemons. Seriously. Lemons. She looks all pinched and sour and her nostrils are flared, in that angry, controlled breathing kind of way. Will appears to be enjoying it though. So much so, that he has finally deigned to put away his laptop after an hour of badgering by Charlie. He insists that tonight is a rare night off, and therefore we should make the most of it. Will hasn't looked very convinced of that fact yet, but no doubt he will come round. He has at least put away the computer and had a drink. The guy is actually quite attractive when he doesn't look to uptight. His tie loosened and his hair is all scruffy, the way it only can be after hours of work and involuntarily running hands through it. His hands I mean. Not mine. Because that would be weird. In the extreme. Not only do I have eyes for another, but that _other_ hates Will's breathing guts. In fact, I still feel a bit uneasy about Will. Mr Honesty himself is keeping this massive secret. Or is he? I mean, if I asked him about it, what would he say? Would his honesty compel him to tell me all about it in its full Technicolor idiocy? Part of me thinks that he might. A much larger part of me thinks that he'd probably tell me resentfully, and would be angry. Fuming even. And a big part of me is simultaneously annoyed that he would, in turn, be annoyed, and yet, also pleased that he would be that honest. This is ridiculous. I don't care. I already knew that he was an ass. An honest, great politically-minded, ass. And I am happy to maintain that picture of him.

* * *

There is something ludicrous about a night off, wherein you don't just feel compelled, but actually want to stay up late and savour it, staying up much later than you would on other days. Somehow ending up at two AM in the hotel conference room, it had all started earlier, when the conversation turned to the White House.

"What's it like?" asked Jane. "You worked there for a while, didn't you?"

Charlie had glowed. "Uh…yes. I was there for six weeks to help with the State of the Union."

She leaned forward. "What is it like? I mean, you go on the tour, but they never let you see _everything._"

"I didn't see much whilst I was there."

Will raised an eyebrow. "I distinctly remember you calling me at, what, three AM, to tell me that you had just seen the inside of the President's bedroom."

The group at the table, now augmented by other members of the team, let out a shout of catcalls and whistles.

"Yeah, OK," said Charlie, grinning. "It was only briefly, and I was dragged there by Josh Lyman to talk about some issue or other."

"In his bedroom?" asked Jaime, shaking her head in wonderment.

"Yeah. It was a bit surreal."

Jane leaned back. "I can't imagine what it would be like to work there, you know?"

Will had, at this point, narrowed his eyes. "That wasn't a…?"

Charlie rolled his eyes. "No, Will, she was not angering the whatever from high atop the thing. It was speculation, not planning." He cast Jane a smile as she had looked, momentarily, worried.

Will was still looking suspicious. "Really?"

"White House Acclimatising Evenings were just as bad."

"Yeah, well I was never quite happy about that…"

Charlie laughed. "Will! Seriously. You need to lighten up."

"What are White House Acclimatising Evenings?" asked Caroline, looking bored before the answer came.

Charlie had glanced at Will, grinned as he shrugged, resigned, and then clapped his hands. "Oh, people. They were good. An evening not unlike this one, we realised that while we had both seen parts of the White House, little mister Washington-nerd more than most, we hadn't seen much."

Will had the grace to smile slightly.

"Anyway, we thought that we should get used to the possible idea of working there, plus, it's really fun realising which bits are common knowledge and which definitely aren't."

"The President's bedroom for one?" asked Lizzie, taking a sip of her drink.

"Exactly. So we began a programme of watching Presidential movies to acclimatise ourselves to the distant but very slightly possible possibility of our running the West Wing one day."

Will acquired a murderous expression. "You should go and appease…"

"If I should, so should you for all the WHAEs."

Will looked for a second like he was genuinely thinking about getting up and appeasing the whatever but then sighed and shrugged. "Yeah, well…" he muttered, half heartedly.

Jane smiled. "How many are there?"

"Loads," said Charlie, spreading out his hands. "You know, _Independence Day, Dave, The American President, Primary Colours, Nixon…_"

Will grimaced. "Not to mention _First Daughter _and _Chasing Liberty._"

Charlie had grinned. "I'll admit, that was a bad night."

Viv choked on her drink. "You watched them as a double bill?"

Will had the look of someone who had witnessed a terrible murder. "It was horrible," he said, and shuddered.

"How long did this go on?" Jane asked, and Will glowered at Charlie.

"A long time," he said, as Charlie grinned.

Lizzie had at this point discovered an evil streak in herself. "There must be some you missed…" she said, speculatively.

Will had spun round, and glared at her. "No. Really none. We watched them all," he insisted, desperately determined to assure her.

"No," said Lizzie slowly. "_Forrest Gump_?"

"Yes."

"_All the President's Men_?"

"Yes." Will's answers were swift and decisive, leaving no room for Charlie's speculation.

"_National Treasure_?"

Will smirked slightly. "Yeah. Both of them."

"Wow," said Jane, "you _did_ watch a lot."

Will had rolled his eyes at this. "This is what happens when Charlie decides that you are working too hard. He creates enforced distractions."

Lizzie was still frowning in thought. "Wait…_Murder at 1600_?"

"Yep" said Charlie. "We really did watch loads."

"And come to think of it, we should be terrified at the prospect of the White House," mused Will, swirling his Whiskey between the ice cubes. "I mean," he continued, in a rare loquacious moment, "a lot of them are about death or things blowing up, or conspiracies, or…"

"Aliens?" put in Matt as he pulled up a chair next to Viv.

Will smirked. "Well, yeah."

"_Sum of All Fears_?"

"Yes," said Will. "Seriously. I doubt there are any we didn't watch."

"What about _Annie_?"

Everyone at the table, at this, had turned to Jane. She blushed. "Well, I mean, they do visit FDR and sing…"

Charlie had a slightly manic look in his eyes. "…and sing the reprise of Tomorrow! Jane you're a genius!"

"Oh no," muttered Will.

"Yes! I am going to find a DVD player and some way of getting _Annie_ here." With that Charlie bounded away from the table like a spring lamb, and the rest, except Caroline who was so far past caring, turned accusingly at Jane.

"What have you done?" asked Will, more in sorrow than in anger.

Jane suddenly looked nervous. "I…I'm sorry…I…"

Will was now grimacing. "We're going to have to watch _Annie_?" He rubbed his forehead, and then slumped, and smiled slowly. "I got away with it for so long…"

"You knew?"

He glanced at Lizzie. "Oh yeah. When it all started I found myself a list of films set in the White House, and then carefully avoided conversations which may in anyway lead Charles to orphans, or American Idol, or..."

"Why American Idol?"

Will grimaced. "We have so far avoided _American Dreamz_."

"Really?" Lizzie grinned.

"I'm not kidding when I say that if you tell him, I will fire you so fast." He nodded assuredly. "Seriously."

"Fine" Lizzie said, and just for a second Will caught her eye and smiled.

So now, an hour later finds them all in the conference room, the projector now beaming the little orphan Annie onto the screen which normally sees presentations and the occasional laser pointer. Finally sans Caroline the atmosphere is friendlier, and Will, leaning back in the swivel chair, his feet up on the table, is, for once, totally relaxed.

"Is this really a kids' film?" he mutters to Lizzie who happens to be sitting near him.

"Allegedly."

Will scoffs. "It's not exactly suitable."

Lizzie smiles slightly. "The combination of Tim Curry and Carol Burnett is alarming."

Sitting by them, Jaime, her legs curled under her, swivels round. "Hey, Lizzie, this isn't the one where Annie never leaves Daddy Warbuck's house is it?"

Lizzie shakes her head. "No, that was on stage, and I think a Disney one. Very censored. Nothing like as scary."

Will raises an eye at the drunk Miss Hannigan, pouring herself a bath of gin. "Or as inebriated?"

"Well, no."

They settle back into silence for a few minutes. Will's gaze is occasionally drawn by the sight of Charles and Jane sitting further forward, their heads bent towards each other, chatting quietly. Part of him is pleased for Charles. A much bigger part is setting off alarm bells. He watches them for a second more, then shakes it off, and turns back to the film, before a minute later leaning over to Lizzie.

"How exactly does the White House come into this?"

"Wait and see."

"Does she become President?"

Lizzie turns to look at him, and is smiling. "Wait and see!" she says again, and then turns back to the screen.

Will finds himself smiling slightly back at her, before his gaze is wrenched by the lovely Boylan sisters, and he sighs.

* * *

**Again, thank you for the reviews. If it's any incentive, it really does remind me to post. **


	12. Back to Tennessee

**Back to Tennessee**

"OK guys, listen up," yells Matt, standing precariously on a swivel chair. "I'm only going to say this once, so pay attention."

The general buzz of the room dies, and silence falls.

"Good," he says. "Right, last night's event was fantastic. We're already getting great feedback, we had more people there than we expected, it is all good. There are notes coming round on it for your information, things that went well, things that will need to change next time, things of which you need to be aware…read it, digest it, don't actually eat it." He glances at his notes. "OK. The Governor of Tennessee is throwing a fundraiser tomorrow and allegedly, he has fallen out with Dawn Lee over something, and is throwing himself behind us instead. Therefore, we are leaving a day early and stopping in Nashville for a night, before the next day going on to Austin as originally planned. Scheduling has sent you all the timetable. Please either download it or print it out. We do not want anyone getting left behind again." He looks at his notes again and nods. "Everything else is in the notes you should now have. Any questions about the next few days, ask Jo and the scheduling team. And that's it. See you later." He climbs off the chair, nearly falls flat on his face, but manages to somehow land on his feet. Then, he walks back into his office and slams the door.

* * *

Fr: charlottelu at warnerstantonandlane

To: ebethbnet; janebennet at charlesbingley

Subject: Back to Tennessee

Hey there- how are the dreaded politicians? I hope you're not wanting to kill yourselves. That would not be good. Anyway, I got an email this morning from the office of Marco Pelloux which was forwarded round the office, saying that as his lawyers, we are invited to his fundraiser tomorrow which is supporting Charles Bingley. After my first thought was whatever happened to poor little Dawn Lee, but my second was, WEEEEEE Lizzie and Jane are coming back to Tennessee! Albeit for a night. So, I have mentally scanned my wardrobe and found it wanting except for a few outfits which you would have done well to say 'spandex? Really Charley?' or possibly 'oh, hell no honey, you are not a bull fighter' and I am going out at lunch to find a dress. In short, I will be at the stupid fundraiser, despite the presence of Pelloux-the-devil, and just to see you two. Also, heads up Liz, I may have accidentally invited Bill Collins as my plus one. Despite your obvious revulsion that night at Al's, (yes I noticed. You are not the enigma cipher) he is a nice guy, and I've bumped into him a few times recently, and he's coming, partly to probably convince one of you two that it would be beneficial to your family to marry him (what is he, some kind of feudal lord?) and partly to meet William Darcy. He is apparently the nephew of Bill's boss, and he wants to pass on a message or something. I don't really remember. Anyway, I will see you two there, with Bill in tow. I will be the one in a fabulous spandex dress, with tassels.

Love you both,

Charley

xx

* * *

"That speech," says Charlie, and swoops around Lizzie, hugging her so that she is lifted off the ground and spun around. "You, Lizzie, are a crucial cog in this crazy machine." He grins, and puts her down at last. "Thank you," he says. "Hiring you may be the best thing I shanghaied Will into doing."

Will, walking up behind him, grimaces slightly, but there is a smile playing around his eyes.

"You're very welcome. It's not even a…you know. It's my job and I'm happy to do it."

Charlie smiles, and nods. "Good. Well, have a fabulous evening. Now, I believe that I am wanted over, where Jane?" He leans down to look at Jane's clipboard of names, his arm round her to look closer. "Oh, OK. Jackson Abbott, Will?"

Will's gaze is taken by Charlie's arm, loosely around Jane. "What?" He shakes his gaze off, and looks up properly. "Oh, yeah, he's all about burning the flag. He'll try and get you to agree to amendments and…you know."

"Yeah OK." Charlie straightens his bowtie, and then walks purposefully toward the old man in the corner. At this, the music begins, and Marco Pelloux guides his beautiful wife onto the dance floor, a tradition of their first dance which has continued now for years.

Lizzie watches, frowning, and Will, still there, notices. "You used to work for him, didn't you?"

She glances up, and nods. "Yeah. His first year, I joined the senior communications team."

"You only worked for a year though, didn't you?"

Lizzie looks up, surprised that he not only knows, but that he remembered. "I…yes."

"Why did you leave?"

She seems to turn it over in her mind, and then says, "I couldn't say," quietly.

Will raises an eyebrow. "You don't know, or you _shouldn't _say?"

Lizzie turns to meet his gaze, and sighs, but doesn't say anything.

"This guy's a joke," comes Caroline's voice from behind them. "I mean, he may be a wonderful humanitarian and all that, but he's so far up himself he's practically looking out his own mouth."

Will turns to look at her, surprised not just at her crudeness, but at the fact that, for once, they agree. He smiles slightly. "He's good at raising money," he quietly remonstrates, half heartedly.

"He'd be good at selling his own mother. That doesn't make him a good person." Will and Caroline both stare at Lizzie, who shrugs, and then walks away.

* * *

Fr: joshlyman at whitehouse

To: williamdarcy at charlesbingley

Subject: heads up

Will,

I hear you're in Tennessee right now at Pelloux's fund raiser. Don't spend too long there. You'll want to kill yourself with a fondue fork.

I thought you should know, the attached got passed to me today as a courtesy, early, and I happened to notice the name, and thought you should see it. Please don't act on it, as I shouldn't potentially have sent it to you but I thought you deserved a few days heads up. It doesn't appear to be at all slanderous, to you or anyone, but I know your history with the guy, and I know that he's an idiot.

Anyway, next time you're passing through, come and have dinner. Donna thinks you're working too hard and Claudie wants to see her uncle Will. Well, I'll be honest, she doesn't remember you. She was only eight months last time you saw her, but I'm sure she'll take to you again. She does, after all, seem to like political types. It's the only way I can explain her not immediately crying when she saw Toby. In fact, she pointed and laughed.

Bear up.

See you soon,

Josh

* * *

I've never really understood the idea of someone's face looking like thunder. I mean, thunder is the sound of the lightning, not the look of it. You can't look like a sound. That's just stupid, if not, I suppose, reasonably poetic. Anyway, this thought has occurred to me a few times, and yet just now, Will pulled it off. He walked up to me, his fist white he was clenching his Blackberry so hard, and my first thought was, "gee, his face looks like thunder." Genuinely.

"What in the hell were you thinking?"

I am mystified. "About what?"

He waves his Blackberry in my face, and when he finally stops waving it long enough for me to register what is actually on the screen, I recognise a few of the things I said to George. "That," he practically spits, as my face no doubt, registers the said recognition.

"But I mentioned it to Caroline. She said that it sounded fine…"

"Fine!" he practically explodes. "It's not enough to be fine. Do you know what this could do?"

I grab it out of his hand to read a little more than one solitary line. He is now pacing back and forth. "But there's nothing bad. It's all good, isn't it?"

Will pauses and I notice a vein throbbing in his jaw. "The content, maybe. The choice of publication?" He sneers. "And the journalist…?" He starts pacing again having whipped the Blackberry back out of my hands.

I start to feel annoyed. I can't really help it. I had decided to not think about what an ass he had been to George. I had decided that it would be better for our working relationship. But now? Now he is throwing it in my face. It's like he's inviting me to yell at him. I control myself, just. I mean, what right has he to be angry at George? He screwed up George's chances at law school, he forced him into the life he has now. Where does he get off now being angry just because George has made something of his life, with no help at all from Will.

"Look…" I start, and really think we should have this out, but at that moment, Charlotte appears at my elbow.

"Are you all right?" she mutters. "It's just you looked a little…"

"It's fine," I say. "I just need a minute."

She nods and is about to gracefully glide away in what, I have to admit, is a fabulous dress, when from behind her, out pops Bill Collins, like one of the gophers in _Billy Bunny's Animal Songs_.

"Mr Darcy?" he enquires, somewhat smarmily. "My name is Bill Collins. I work for your aunt."

Will turns at some high velocity and nearly clocks Bill in the ear with his elbow. Boy, he really is tall. The vein in his jaw is still pulsing too. "What?"

All pretence at politeness gone, he appears to be furious.

"Uh…" begins Bill, to his credit, a little unsure, "I'm Bill Collins? I'm a senior executive at DBD Advertising?"

Will has an expression of undisguised loathing. "My aunt?"

"Yes, sir, and I thought you would like to know that she is very well. I'd imagine that you have little time to see her while you are so busy, so I thought you would like to know…" He trails off lamely as Will shakes his head ever so slightly, and walks off. "Huh," he says.

With that Bill walks off to the buffet, leaving me and Charlotte both looking bemused, at the very least. Jane hurries up. "What just happened? Will's looking like he's going to murder someone."

"Yeah," I say, running a hand through my hair, irrespective of the massive amount of hairspray and pins that were in to keep it up and neat. "I'd keep him away from Charlie, and from Marco Pelloux as well…"

Jane shoots me a look.

"Don't ask. I'm not even sure what happened."

She bites her lip for a second, and then hurries off. I sit down in the corner, and Charlotte sits by me. "So," she says. "That was unexpected."

"What?" I ask, resigned. "That Will was a pompous ass or that Bill was an idiot?"

Charley smiles slightly. "You have a point."

"This is going from bad to worse."

She frowns a little, and fixes my hair. "Are you hating the job?"

"No." I'm surprised to admit it. Will is hard work, and Caroline is rarely anything less than a heinous bitch, but everyone else is lovely, and it feels just right. I sigh. "I'm really not."

"Then what's wrong?"

I chew my lip for a second. "It feels like we're on the edge of a cliff, and any second now something or someone's going to push us and everything is going to come tumbling down." I almost feel like crying. "I don't know," I say. "It feels like we've got a really good thing here, and yet it's just balancing on a knife edge, you know? Me and Jane working together. Both of us happy. Far away from Mom."

Charley snorts. "I feel that. My mother dropped in on me the other day, very casually, to ask when I'm getting married as apparently my cousin Mei is now engaged."

I'm tired. Suddenly exhaustingly, drainingly tired. And yet I somehow dredge my memories of Charley's family barbeques out of my mind. "Isn't she, like, seventeen?"

Charley rolls her eyes. "Yes, and pregnant, although we don't talk about that," she says, ending in a perfect impersonation of her mother.

"Oh. OK."

Charley slips an arm round me. "I'm sorry about tonight."

"It wasn't your fault. Will was already in a foul mood."

"OK, well, I don't think I helped but... let me buy you a drink?"

Suddenly we are cast into shadow. Will is towering over me.

Before I even have time to mutter "speak of the devil" he has taken a deep breath, completely ignores Charley, and says, "Elizabeth, would you like to dance?"

I am stunned. Speechlessly completely without words. "I…with you?" is all I manage.

"Yes."

He hardly looks thrilled at the prospect.

"I…" Something takes over and before my mouth and my brain catch up with each other, I've said, "sure."

How did this…?

Damn it.

* * *

I have a few questions for which I would like answers:

1) Why, oh why the hell, did I say yes?

2) What possessed me to wear this dress? It is not helping my thought process.

3) Why, oh why the hell is he not speaking?

Seriously. It feels like he has been twirling and swaying me here for hours, and yet he says nothing. Not one thing. It's almost as if he has some kind of bet, or that his family is all suspended above a vat of boiling oil, and he has to get through this dance, however painfully, and save them. It's not as if it's deafeningly noisy in here. I mean, there are some clubs where it is so loud there's just no point. You just dance. Except there it doesn't usually involve classical ballroom hold. Anyway, this is not the same. Everyone else is maintaining either some light banter, some witty back and forth, or, in the case of Charlie and Jane, looking like they are unaware of anyone else. They're just kind of smiling at each other, looking incredibly happy. Not that it would ever happen with Darcy. But it would be nice if he was registering something more than extreme remorse at asking me to dance.

"So," I begin, "do you think of Tennessee as home, or is it DC, or New Hampshire, I guess…" I trail off as he raises his eyebrows. "I mean," I carry on, "you've lived in all those places. Where is home?" It really is a sickness, this inability to maintain an uncomfortable silence. In fact, I think he may have noticed this particular disability of mine.

"Do you always talk while you're dancing?"

I shrug, as well as you can in ballroom hold, mid waltz. "I can't say I'm often in this situation. But normal dancing, sure."

He doesn't answer. He just looks bemused. The fury has left his face for the moment. He just looks resigned, somewhat strained. But then, Charlotte and Bill have just danced past. In all fairness, I would have to restrain myself not to clock the guy.

"So, home?" I reiterate.

"Oh, Washington I guess," he says, not really seeming to concentrate. "No," he suddenly says, as if coming to, "Wales."

"Wales?"

He nods, curtly, but says nothing, as if his answer should have been enough.

"Oh, I…"

"Why do you want to know?"

I look up at him, which is hard at this proximity. I have to crane my neck back a bit. "I'm just interested," I say.

"You want to figure me out?"

My immediate response would be 'no!', but in all honesty, I guess I am. "Maybe."

His voice is getting more strained with every sentence. "And you think that you can work that out just by knowing where my house is?"

"Where you call _home_. It's very different."

He is silent again for a moment. This is all very strange, to be dancing in what is essentially a backless dress, with a man about whom I know next to nothing, his hand on my aforementioned bare back, while he boils in rage over something which he clearly can't quite articulate. He swallows hard, clearly making a monumental effort.

"Have you known George Wickham long?"

I'm surprised. I mean, not as much as I was when he asked me to dance, but still. The shock is measurable. "Uh, no. I've only met him once."

"No doubt he was very charming." His tone is chilly.

"Yes," I say, in all honesty. "He was."

"You take an interest in him?"

I don't quite know how to answer. What has he asked? Am I dating him? Do I like him? Do I know about his terrible treatment of George? This is all so confusing. "I suppose. He certainly is interesting."

His hand on my back becomes tense. "He has always known how to spin a good story." The vein has reappeared in his jaw.

"No doubt partly why he became a journalist."

He looks down at me, and there is a look in his eyes, troubled, and confused, but with a dawning recognition. "He told you…"

"That he has been _so_ unfortunate as to lose your friendship?" I butt in, edged with a little sarcasm. Or maybe a lot.

He seems to be about to say something but then he stops himself. "It may be better that we don't talk after all."

"Does small-talk bore you?" I can't help it. He winds me up.

He pauses, seeming to turn over words in his mind. "It's hardly educational," he says, sarcasm darting round the edges.

Educational? Does he weigh and measure each little thing for its worth before uttering it? I give up. "Maybe then it is better if we do say nothing."

"Was that your own decision, or are you just doing as I ask?"

Man, this guy is irritating. He says to stop talking, I agree. Now I try to, and he questions me over it. I am fast approaching giving up on civility all together. "I was in the happy situation where I could please both of us," I say, jaw clenched. "I mean," I continue, on a roll, "neither of us actually _wants_ to talk. Silence is clearly always so much more preferable unless you can say something which will amaze the whole room."

The music ends. While other couples laugh together, walking off, others like Charlie and Jane just stand there, almost unaware that the music has ended. Will however stares down at me, his eyes looking stormy. I shrug. Neither of us does have anything to say. Why bother? I step back out of his arms, and walk away.

* * *

Fr: richardfitzwilliam at dbd

To: williamdarcy at charlesbingely

Subject: Your happy little munchkin face

Hey there.

So. I was feeling pretty bad. Jules is away on work, and can't come back, and the thing is, she'd really like to, because the kids have all gone down with something approaching stomach flu, which, I will tell you now, is no joke, and, you know, I've spent the last 24 hours solidly with one child or another throwing up, crying, wetting the bed…and I was thinking, this sucks. I need to take a break. And so, in a brief moment of non-vomiting, I found time to check my emails and what has actually been going on in the world, and my eyes were greeted with this prize picture, which I believe was only taken tonight, but some earnest photographer has whipped it onto their website. Anyway, I realised that whatever was going on with me must be only half of what is happening to you to make you look like the UN-DEAD. Seriously Will, has there been some kind of tragedy that I don't know about, because you look dreadful. So if you don't at least email and tell me that you're just about all right, then I may have to pack up the car with the kids, weeping, vomming and so on, and come and find you, wherever you are right now, because I feel in the capacity as your only family, G excluded, that I should organise some kind of intervention.

Let me know mate,

Rich (and the three Stooges: Weepy, Vommer and Pee Pants.)

* * *

Fr: williamdarcy at charlesbingley

To: richardfitzwilliam at dbd

Subject: I'll tell you what you can do with your Munchkin face

Well first, I'm sorry to hear about the kids, although with those delightful nicknames, I don't feel so inclined to come and visit any time soon.

Second, I am not going to kill myself, if that was what concerned you. I have had a bad night. One of those monumentally bad nights, and I'm not quite sure what I'm going to do about it, but right now, I am hammering out my rage on my laptop keyboard, which is cathartic.

See, George Wickham appears to be back. And around politics. Yes. Just my luck. So in fact, I may just kill myself now. Anyway, it appears that one of my staff was interviewed by him, and he appears to have told her about us, or our past, or some version of it. Anyway, I was seized by reasonable rage about that, probably unfairly directed at this member of staff, who I then inexplicably asked to dance, and it went even further down hill.

So. That is the reason for the face, which, if it was taken at the point I think it was, was when I was just finished yawning. No one looks good then. Except, you know, babies and puppies.

Kiss the kids for me. From a safe distance.

Will

* * *

Fr: richardfitzwilliam at dbd

To: williamdarcy at charlesbingley

Subject: What, Will? What will you do?

I realise that there was more going on in your email than this particular revelation (one thing being I'm guessing you mean that George told said staffer about you and him 'us', not me and you, because, you know, what is there to tell beyond how we used to have matching pyjamas and I once gave you a bloody nose) but, you know, I'm essentially a twelve year old boy stuck in a thirty-five year old body, so what the hell. You danced? Voluntarily? With a girl?

What kind of madness made that happen? Were dogs miaowing and, like, all the birds flying in one direction?

Rich

* * *

Fr: williamdarcy at charlesbingley

To: richardfitzwilliam at dbd

Subject: Death awaits you

I knew it was a bad plan to tell you. I'm not sure what overcame me. I had been a total ass to her, and she looked so fed up, and there was really great music, and it just kind of happened. But then, unfortunately, we had the most painfully difficult conversation of my life. It seems to happen all the time with her. We just don't get on. Anyway, it was a bad plan from the start. Everything. Even going to the stupid fundraiser. Marco Pelloux is an idiot. I think she has more reason to hate him than anyone, and yet says nothing. I really don't know…anyway, I am putting it behind me. We're off to Austin tomorrow. Tennessee is nothing but trouble.

Will

* * *

Fr: richardfitzwilliam at dbd

To: williamdarcy at charlesbingley

Subject: By what means? Your rapier wit?

You were born there. Tennessee is after all, allegedly, America at its best. Although did you know that it has no state dinosaur? According to Wikipedia, we in New Jersey have the Hadrosaurus foulkii. Check it out. It looks like a shovel. And allegedly our state soil is Downer, which has four horizons…and you in TN have Dixon, which isn't interesting enough for Wikipedia to tell me anything about it. So I'll admit, Tennessee hasn't much (soil and dinosaur-wise) going for it. And actually, I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to be from Pennsylvania. They do, after all, have the Slinky as their state toy.

So. I think all we have learned here is that I love Wikipedia. Which we all already knew.

Oh, and the girl. Well, I'm not surprised. I mean, you aren't the world's greatest conversationalist at the best of times. Now add incredibly busy, extraordinarily long days, and George Wickham to the mix, and you were bound to screw up. Just say sorry, and tell her that George is a massive waste of space. And then kiss her. Or whatever. I'm sure Jules would have better advice but, you know, she's still stuck in Washington. The real one, not DC. And, you know, their state motto is _By and by_ which is nothing to good old _Liberty and Prosperity_. Or even Pennsylvania's _Virtue, Liberty and Independence_. They get the best of everything. Except dinosaurs. Although it appears your beloved DC has one. So take heart.

Rich

* * *

Fr: williamdarcy at charlesbingley

To: richardfitzwilliam at dbd

Subject: Yes. Exactly.

Are you some sort of one man advertisement for Wikipedia? And of course I can't just _say sorry…tell her that George is a massive waste of space…and then kiss her, _you imbecile. I'm not sure what I will do, but it may be something above your playground antics.

Now go play kiss chase. I need to go to bed. If today was long, tomorrow will be longer.

Will

* * *

**Thank you for reading and especially for reviewing. **

**NYT: **Thank you. I have corrected it. And though Collins says it in this chapter, I think he would be that kind of pompous ass.

**Lelalini: **Some confrontation, delivered. No kissing, as yet. Hold your horses. It's in the pipeline.

**Everyone else, thank you. **


	13. Definitely not herself

**I don't know who he is, but she is definitely not herself**

Lizzie wakes up early and lies in bed for a few minutes, trying to untangle the previous night's events. It all seems to be a mess of Charlie grinning madly, and angry green eyes. A lot of yelling. Towering. A hand on her back. Charlie and Jane dancing alone. Will's eyes? And then…someone else, and the courtyard, and…then a lot of alcohol. It is only at this that her stomach kicks in she runs to the toilet, one hand over her mouth. A few minutes later, sitting back against the cold tiled wall, she starts to unravel the pictures. The speech had gone down brilliantly. Charlie had been thrilled, and had spun her round in his excitement. He had gone off dancing with Jane and neither was barely free for the rest of the night. Will was furious about something, something about…George. But then they were dancing, and his eyes were confused, almost hollow. And something had happened, they'd said things? And then she had gone to the courtyard to cool off, and had walked into…Bill Collins.

Lizzie leans back and groans. It all comes flooding back in glorious Technicolor and she suddenly feels like her head might explode. At the same time, there is a hammering at her door. She groans in reply.

"Lizzie?"

She manages to crawl to the door and open it, standing shakily against the doorframe. Jane pushes her way in, closes the door, and the rounds on her. "What happened?"

This early, and this hung-over, Lizzie can't quite cope with Jane when she has her game face on, that crazed ready-for-action thing. She makes her way to her bed, and slumps onto the end amongst the tangled bed clothes. "I'm not really sure. I just know it was bad enough that I got seriously drunk." She rubs her forehead, and pushes the hair off her face. "Why? How did you know…?"

Jane pours Lizzie a glass of water, digs out some aspirin, and then passes them both to her. "I had an irate message from Mom this morning."

"How did _she _know?"

Jane sits in the armchair opposite the bed, raises delicate eyebrows, and crosses her arms. "She wanted to know why you hadn't let them know the second that you had gotten engaged. To Bill Collins." She seems to fight a smile.

Lizzie groans. "How did she know _that_?"

A look of panic flits across Jane's face. "You're not actually…Lizzie, you're not…"

"No, of course not! I'd have to be high, drunk and criminally stupid."

Jane relaxes. "Well, good."

Lizzie grimaces, and takes the pills, drinking the whole glass of water. "What did you say to her?"

Jane's calm face slips into a wince. "I may…I was taken a little off guard. I mean, I had only just woken up." She sighs. "I said that there was no way that you'd have said yes."

Lizzie nods slowly. "Well, I guess that's true." She slumps back, flat. "What kind of idiot…" she mutters, "what kind of idiot would think I'd marry him after two nights after ten years, when I was never that enamoured of him _then_!"

"To be fair," says Jane, "you did go to homecoming together."

"Which was entirely your fault!"

Jane has the grace to look a little guilty. "Well…yes."

Lizzie groans again. "He looked so surprised. I mean, I don't exactly remember everything. The alcohol has taken care of that, but I do remember his face. He genuinely thought I'd say yes." She sighs, heavily. "Why did you tear in here so, you know, crazy?"

Jane bites her lip, and winces. "Well, uh, Mom didn't quite believe that you had said no to him, and was so angry and…she's on her way here."

Lizzie sits up like she is propelled with a rocket. "She's what?"

"Yeah. So I thought you'd appreciate the heads up." She stands up and shrugs. "I'll make you some coffee. You get in the shower."

Lizzie stares at her for a second, before slowly standing up. "I blame you, entirely for this," she says, frowning.

Jane grins. "Fair enough. Now get in the shower."

* * *

Mom has her sugar and spice smile on. It's a bad sign, the moment I open the door.

"Lizzie, darling."

"Yeah?"

"Won't you let us in?"

I glance past her, where Dad is leaning against the wall, looking a little nonplussed.

"Uh, sure," I say, buoyed up by the three cups of coffee that Jane has got down me. I mean, how bad can this be? Well, potentially bad enough that when Jane said, 'Oh, I'll think I'll go now,' as Mom phoned to say she was here, I said, 'oh, hell no, I'll kill you first'. Or something like that.

Mom walks in the room, and looks round in a kind of interested way. Almost like…oh hell, almost like she's trying to see signs of a night of passion with my new fiancée. I suddenly feel like throwing up again.

"Well, Lizzie," she says, turning round and perching on the armchair. "How are you?"

"Oh fine," I manage breezily. Dad smirks, and remains leaning by the door.

"Well you know, you girls aren't here long in Tennessee…"

"We're leaving in a few hours," I put in.

"Yes," says Mom, with her don't-mess-with-me look, "and we thought we'd just come and drop in, share some news."

Why isn't she just yelling? This casual wheedling is so much more painful. It's like slowly peeling off a band-aid, not ripping. "Oh, you have some news?" I ask, ever the interested daughter. Jane perches on the window sill, her head in her hands. She clearly can't stand much longer of this.

"No," says Mom. "Now what about you?"

Dad barks a laugh, and then, at a steely glare from Mom, is quiet again.

"Oh, you know, not much."

Somehow, of everything, this breaks her. "Yes you do!" she yells. "What did you say to Bill Collins?"

I give up the pretence too. "How did you know about it?" I ask.

Mom shrugs. "He came and asked your father for permission."

"And you gave it?" I ask, wheeling round on him.

"It's not like I had much of a choice sweet pea," he says. "Your mother had me cornered."

He has never been good at putting his foot down. Now however, would have been a good time to learn.

"So?" asks Mom, shrilly. "What did you say? Jane seemed to think…" She turns to Jane, and I swear, for the first time, ever, gives her the steely glare.

"Well Jane was right. There was no way I was going to marry him."

Mom spins round and glares at me now. Boy is _this_ fun. "How could you be so selfish?"

"What?"

"He could have saved the farm. His land with ours would have been enough for us to actually make it work." I can almost see the steam coming out of her ears, but in all fairness, she has a point. It's a dumb point, but still.

"Tell her Rex." Mom points the glare back at Dad.

He shrugs. "Well I guess she's right in that…I mean. Young Bill Collins' land with ours would make the farm more viable. We'd have a proper ranch again…" He trails off, and as Mom turns back to me, triumphant, he mouths 'sorry'. I ignore him.

"See!" says Mom. "See! You'd be comfortable for life, Lizzie. He showed us his investments and shares and…"

"He showed you his investments?" I ask, incredulously. Seriously. What kind of a guy brings financial proof that he should marry someone's daughter. An idiot. That's who.

"Yes," says Mom, "and he isn't just secure. He is _well off_. Seriously. Maybe not as well off as Janey's Charlie," she says, waving a hand at a mortified Jane, "but well off. You'd be comfortable, we'd have a living…everyone wins."

I can't quite compute what my mother is trying to say. I have to sit down. "But I don't love him," I say, probably quite weakly.

"So? This is bigger than that?"

"Is anything?" asks Jane. She's an old romantic, but, you know, in this case I'm on her side. As she appears to be on mine.

Dad smiles at her. "Not often darlin'."

Mom rolls her eyes. "This is ridiculous. Lizzie, you will phone him back, and tell him you've changed your mind."

"No I won't."

Jane appears to be getting braver. "Do you even have his number?"

Ha! Yes! "No, I don't. See, Mom, I don't have his number, because I _barely know the guy_."

She scoffs. "That's ridiculous. You went to homecoming together."

I shoot Jane a glare which could be construed as malevolent. She grins, guiltily.

"Mom, I'm not marrying him."

"Rex?"

"I'm not doing it Mom. I barely know him, I don't love him, I'm not sure I even like him."

"Rex!"

"And, I'm not a kid. I'm old enough to make these decisions myself."

"REX!"

Dad turns to me slowly. "Sweet pea, your Mom obviously feels very strongly about this."

"You're not kidding."

Mom bristles. "Of course I do. This is not just her future. This is all of ours…" She turns to me, pleading, nodding slowly as if it's the obvious, natural thing to do, to marry an idiot because your mother tells you to.

"Mom," I start, slowly, as if placating an angry bear, "I'm not going to marry him, and I don't think I ever will."

She stands up. "Well then, I don't think I can ever see you again. Rex. Come on."

Dad closes his eyes for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Unless, of course,Lizzie," she continues, with a pointed look, "you will change your mind."

Dad glances at Mom, and then to me, and smiles. "Lizzie, love, your Mother will never see you again if you don't marry him…" Mom nods vehemently, " but unfortunately" he continues, "I will never see you again if you do." His mouth twitches, as Mom turns to him, horrified.

I feel a smile tug my mouth into a grin. My Dad, Mister OK-honey-that's-fine has finally put his foot down. "Daddy…" I begin, but he swiftly kisses me on the cheek, and then walks toward Mom. "Come on Frannie," he says. "They're grown ups now. They've got to make their own mistakes."

Mom looks at him for an icy few seconds, before marching out of the room. Dad turns back to us. "No amount of money will ever be worth your happiness, do you understand?" he asks. "That goes for marrying fools like Bill Collins, or guys who may seem quite nice, like your Bingley, Janey. OK?"

We both nod, and he nods in return, before leaving the room, closing the door behind him. Jane and I exchange glances, and sigh.

"Well," she says. "I guess we'd better go get ready to go to Austin."

"Yeah," I say. "All eight-hundred miles away from Mom."

And Jane smiles.

* * *

Fr: deathtothewiggles

To: williamdarcy at charlesbingley

Subject: You

Hey there sailor. Long time no talk to.

Rich has caught me up with everything. Yes. You can thank him later, maybe with a shovel. In the meantime, I kind of slightly agree with him, much as it pains me to say it. I mean, the whole _just tell her about you and George, and then kiss her_ is, I'll grant you, simplistic, but something along those lines. With or without the kissing. Depending on, you know, whether you actually _like_ her. Although Rich said something about you and dancing, and I had understood that you were opposed to dancing. On many levels. So, you know, maybe she's pretty special to have you up, doing your thang. Especially when, from what I hear from G, it's pretty damn good. When you can be bothered I mean.

Anyway, try to not be such a boy, would you? I know it's hard, but it'd be so much easier if you just talked sometimes. Not that I have that problem with Rich. It's more trying to get him to shut up.

Yours, thrilled to be 2000 miles away from the house of vomit,

Juliet

* * *

"Will, are you free?"

Will looks up from his Blackberry with a smile. Viv almost takes a step back, she's so surprised.

"Uh…Jeff wanted a few things confirmed."

"What things?"

Viv sits down opposite him tentatively. "Just these," she says, pushing a piece of paper towards him. "The Catholics Dinner, Daniel Mora…" She leans over, pointing. "Just there."

He frowns at the paper. "OK, um…here," he says, marking down the side of the page. "Yes to the Catholics, no to Mora, yes to Cumberland and to the air force thing, pretty much whenever it is, OK? Uh, no, no, yes, and…I need to talk to the Senator about that one."

She stands up, relieved. "Thank you Sir," she says, and walks off.

Will stands up, stretches, and then walks down the plane to where Charles is chatting to Lizzie and Jane, Matt, Jamie and Mark. "Hi," he says. "Can I talk to you guys for a second?"

"All of us?" asks Jamie, and is rewarded with another smile.

"Yeah. Look, we've been invited to this Literary Festival in New York in about a month. I think we should probably go. What do you think?"

"Has anyone else accepted?"

Will glances at a message before him. "Dawn Lee, Christopher Schwartz, Guy Brand…they've all declined."

Charles leans forward. "What's its reputation like?"

Will shrugs. "It's small, quite new, but it's gaining ground."

Lizzie nods. "I've been a few times. It's not one of the famous ones, but it's got a great rep, and good people turn up to it."

Charles turns to her. "You've been? So you think I should go too?"

She frowns for a minute. "Yeah, I think maybe. I mean, it's a good platform to talk from, there'll be people there who are interested in rhetoric, not just in a few clever words. A well written speech might make all the difference."

"But that's not what this campaign has been about," puts in Matt. "We've been busy painting the Senator as young and fresh. Nothing will kill that quite so fast as making him stand up and recite Shakespeare."

"Plus," puts in Jaime, "we wanted people to relate to you, Sir. If you're up there saying how much you love Shakespeare, which, no doubt, you do, won't people just turn off?"

"So you guys think I shouldn't?" he asks, and rubs his neck. "Mark? What about you?"

Mark shrugs as he doodles on the pad before him. "I don't know," he says. "We certainly are working hard to present you as young and fresh, and relatable to young people. I mean, you could get a fantastic response from young voters if we can get them, and maybe this would be a bad plan. I mean, it could work, but…I'm not sure."

Charles nods slowly. "Where's Caroline? What does she think?"

Will leans back. "Oh, I think she said that it's pretty balanced. You'd look intelligent, although it could go wrong." He pauses. "Really, what it comes down to is that you could get voters, who might have equated youth with stupidity, but on the other hand, you could alienate your own voters." He pauses again. "I think not going is like we're dumbing them down."

"Exactly," says Lizzie. "They're only as dumb as we make them. No one would ever be a worse President for being _more_ intelligent."

Charles shoots Will a look, expecting him to rave about superstitions, but instead he is staring at Lizzie. Charles grins, and then turns back to the subject in hand. "Oh, I don't know. Jane, what do you think?"

Will leans forward, eyes wide, and watches, nervously as Jane thinks for a second. "I think the others might be right. I see what you're saying Liz, but surely we'd be going against everything we've already said. I mean, we don't want to try and make him out to be another President Bartlett. That's just not who he is."

Charles nods slowly, and Will's expression darkens. "Yeah. I think you're right. I think we'll say no."

Will sits still for a moment, before sighing, and standing up. "I... OK. I guess…OK." With that, he walks off down the plane, his whole frame tense.

* * *

Fr: williamdarcy at charlesbingley

To: deathtothewiggles

Subject: re: You

Hey. Thanks for the email. I'll deal with Rich later.

I hope you're having a nice time in Washington. You're clearly well away from your brood. Otherwise you'll be down with something hideous and bang goes that commission. Not that I don't love my little nephew and nieces. They're just germ laden. You understand.

Well, it would appear that today is shaping up to be just as bad as yesterday. The Senator just turned down the opportunity to go to a Literary Festival, which, you know, fair enough, but I'm concerned about…well, frankly I can't say, but suffice to say, I'm confused and would like to fire everyone. Even myself.

Look, could you pass on to Rich to not say anything to G about George being back. It's screwing me up, because I hate keeping stuff from her, but this once maybe she doesn't need to know. Anyway, he's such a blabbermouth it'll probably come out, but if you could attempt to keep it on the down low I'd be very grateful.

All right. You go back to drawing house plans. I'll go back to organising and schmoozing. I'll try and see you guys soon. Maybe at Sam's birthday? Let me know.

Love to you and the kids when you see them,

Will

* * *

_Three weeks later_

I can't believe it took me this long to work it out. I mean, she's been looking pretty miserable for a few weeks, ever since the event that Pelloux threw for us, or near enough. And somehow, I didn't really notice it. I guess it came on slowly. She started looking a bit off, a bit worried, and then she just looked a bit lonely, and suddenly, I turned round yesterday, and Jane looked miserable.

"What's wrong?" I asked, and pulled her down next to me. We were sitting in the bar of the hotel in Los Angeles we were staying in, and she hadn't touched her G&T (a bad sign in itself) and then suddenly, tears came into her eyes.

"I thought it was enough," she said. "I thought the job would keep me happy but I've lost him, and I don't know how."

I'll admit, I had noticed it too. Jane had kept her distance from Charles these last few weeks, but seemed perfectly happy, and I guessed that she was just busy, but slowly, he hasn't been going downstairs to have lunch with her, hasn't come and had drinks in the evening when he's back. Slowly he has slipped through her fingers, and I don't know what to say.

"I mean," she continued, fighting the tears, "it's what Will wanted, and it's better this way, but I just…I don't think I can go on like this."

"Wait, what?"

"Yeah," she said, and wiped her eyes. "I know it's horribly unprofessional, but I can't do it any longer." She turned to me, beautiful still, despite the tears. "I can't watch him meet someone else. I can't watch him with other women."

"You're leaving?"

She stood up and took a deep breath. "Yeah," she said. "I left my resignation on Will's desk earlier. He'll get it when they're back from visiting the Caldwells." She wiped her eyes, took another deep breath, and then walked out, up to her room.

And so here I am, fighting the urge to down my drink, break into Will's office, tear up her resignation, and then run to Janey and tell her everything is going to be alright. Because here's the thing. They have grown apart. She has been working hard, and he has been away a lot, and they aren't as close. I can't tell her that he won't meet someone else, no matter how smitten he was. And I can't tell her that she'll get over it and be strong, because last time, Tim Richter cheated on her, and left her destroyed for, like, a month. She can't go through that again. Maybe it's better if she does leave. It's just…what did she mean about Will?

* * *

**Thanks again peeps. **

**Also, a long over-due shout out to LJ, who knows why. **


	14. Cookies Crumble

**This post owes a great deal to the screwball comedy, particularly _What's Up Doc? _amongst the raft of my inspirations. Thanks, the past.

* * *

**

Cookies crumble

I decided a long time ago that calling home was a bad idea. If you're feeling sad, the last thing you want to hear is someone who sounds like hugs and gingerbread and riding at sunset and snickerdoodles. Yes, I'll admit, my happy memories of home are largely tied up in cookies. But on the other hand, there's nothing to dowse you with cold water like a mother's guilt. Or a sister's weirdness. Or a combination of the two.

"Hi, it's me."

"_Hello." _Mom still hasn't forgiven me about Bill Collins. What a surprise.

"Hi. How are you?"

"_Fine." _Seriously hasn't forgiven me.

"Look, Mom, I'm sorry about Bill, but I was never going to marry him. You know that."

There is silence for a minute on the other end, then a sigh._ "Yeah, well, had he waited a few weeks he could have proposed to Jane, and we all know what she would have said."_

"She would have said exactly the same as me, Mom. She didn't know or love him either."

Silence again. _"Well it's all very annoying. I thought I had her practically married off, and yet here she is, back home again."_

"I know. How's she doing?"

Mom tuts. _"She's not happy. She's moping, and that will give her frown lines, and that will give her a shelf life."_

All right. Crazy woman. "She's bound to meet someone else Mom. Don't give her up yet."

"_Yeah, well…" _mutters Mom.

"Could I talk to her?" I ask, hopeful that this could end soon.

"_She's out riding with Mary,"_ says Mom.

"Oh, good. Well at least she's not locked in her room or something."

"_Yeah," _mutters Mom again, darkly. _"Oh, Lydia wants to talk to you…"_

"OK," I say. "Well, it was nice talking to you. Speak to you soon."

"_OK," _she says. Clearly she isn't ready to entirely forgive me.

"_I saw George again today," _says Lydia, presumably as a welcome.

"What…I…hello?"

"_Yeah, hi, whatever. I saw him again."_

"Where?"

I can practically hear her shrugging. _"In town," _she says, vaguely. _"He asked about you."_

"Asked what?"

"_How you are, what's going on, your email, that kind of thing."_

Wait. What? "What? Lyddie, my email? You gave him my email address?"

A shrug again. _"He's cute, and for some inexplicable reason, he seems to like you. Of course I gave it."_

I sigh. "OK," I say. He was cute, and I did like him. I wouldn't mind having him in my life. It just makes things with Will more complicated. Not that you'd think that was possible, given our monumental levels of complication and weirdness. "Fine," I say. "Anything else?"

Lydia ums and ahs. _"Uh, not much. Did Mom tell you about Bill Collins?"_

"What, about how disappointing I am for not marrying him? Or how Jane could have instead and she was a shoe-in?"

Lydia laughs. _"No, doofus, about how he's engaged to Charley."_

A chill descends through the phone, somehow. "He's what?"

"_Engaged? To Charley?"_

"My Charley? Charlotte Lu, Charley? Little, Chinese, hot-shot lawyer…"

"_Yes. Geez, what's wrong with you?"_

I groan. "Oh, nothing. Just the hell mouth, opening. Look Lyds, I've got to go. Give my love to the others, especially Janey."

"_Yeah OK. Tell George I think he's sexy when he emails."_

"Uh, no. Speak to you soon."

"_Yeah, whatever."_

"OK, bye."

"_Bye."_

* * *

Oh hell no. I consider getting on a plane so that I can go there and slap some sense into her. I think better of it.

* * *

"_Hello?"_

"Hey, Miri, is Charley there?"

"_Yeah, look Lizzie, have you heard?"_

"Boy, yeah."

"_Are you going to talk her out of it?"_

"For you Miri, anything."

She laughs. _"He's not all that bad. He's just…not exactly who I would have picked for her."_

"You and me both," I say. "Look, I'll talk, and you slap her."

She laughs again. _"Sure. I'll go and get her."_

"Thanks"

"_Hello? Liz?"_

I take a deep breath. "Hi," I say, in a measured and controlled fashion, masking all my emotion.

"_You're furious and want to talk me out of it."_

What is she, a ninja? "No, no," I say. Start easy, wheedle the way in. "I'm just a bit surprised."

"_Surprised? You don't want to kill me?"_

"No, no," I say again. "Why would I kill you? Who would I have to take shopping for cowboy boots and comedy shaped handbags if I killed you?" Good Lizzie. Smooth.

"_I'm just surprised you're not here, slapping me silly."_

"So am I." Oops. Oh well. I'd rather be honest anyway. "Look, I'll admit, I'm surprised and not exactly thrilled."

"_Yeah, I thought as much."_

"I mean, you know he proposed to me, like a month ago?"

"_Yeah," _she says, sounding resigned, _"but you know, you missed out. He's nice, and he'll take care of me."_

"Charley," I begin, "that's not all you need. You need to, I don't know, love him?"

"_I do."_

"What?" Seriously, what?

She sighs, and I can just see her screwing up her face. _"Look, marriage isn't just about some grand passion, is it? Years go by and romance fades. You know what's left then?"_

Senility? No, I can't say that… "I, uh…"

"_Trust, Lizzie. Trust."_

Oh. Right. I meant that. "Yeah," I say. "Is that enough for you?"

"_It's all I need," _she says, simply. _"Everything else can follow."_

I get it. Remarkably, I do. I'm not happy about it, I'm not exactly going to be doing some kind of big wedding dance, but I'm on board. Well, I'm hovering near the life rafts. OK, I'm in the life raft, waiting for the boat to sink, but when it does, I will put it back together. And I will not be smug. "OK," I say, and somehow, I think the whole Titanic metaphor is conveyed. "If you're happy then I'm happy."

"_OK,"_ she replies. _"Now I just need Miri on board."_

I snort. "Yeah, good luck with that."

She laughs. Wow she really is good natured. I wish I was that good natured. _"Look, Bill's got a work thing at the beginning of December, and I was wondering if you'd come."_

What? "To Bill's work thing?"

"_Well, he's just been made partner, and his boss has apparently decided that she will host our engagement party at the same time as some big Christmas party." _She pauses. _"She sounds like an old dragon, and Miri was already against it enough. If you come, she might too."_

I sigh, heavily, just so she knows how much I don't want to go to Bill's work thing _slash_ engagement party. "OK," I say slowly. "I'll try."

"_Ha!" _cries Charley, triumphantly. _"Miri, she's going to come!"_ Faintly in the background I hear, '_fine. I guess I will too.'_

"_Thank you," _says Charley. _"I couldn't do this without you."_

I sigh again. "Sure you would. You're feisty. You could have taken that old lady."

"_Maybe," _she says, _"but this way will by much easier. Love you Liz."_

"Love you too. Bye."

Damn it.

* * *

Fr: george at jrusselonline

To: ebethbnet

Subject: Hi

Hi there. I bumped into your sister the other day and she gave me your email address. I mean, I had to ask for it first. It wasn't like she was giving it out randomly. Anyway, I thought I'd email and thank you again for your interview. It really made the article, and I've received some interest for it, so thank you. I couldn't have done it without you.

George

* * *

Fr: ebethbnet

To: george at jrusselonline

Subject: Hello to you too.

Hi.

It was a pleasure. After hanging out with all these political types for a few months, it is a breath of fresh air to get to talk to someone else. And I'm so glad it has done well. It was really well written. You clearly have a talent, even if it wasn't your intention to go that way to start with.

Stay in touch,

Lizzie

* * *

Fr: george at jrusselonline

To: ebethbnet

Subject: Hi again

_Stay in touch_ turn out to be my three favourite words in the English language. Who knew?

How's the campaign going?- off the record of course. Are you still enjoying it? Is Bingley still as inspirational? Is Will still such an ass?

As for me, I'm stuck, working at home for a while, as I have flu. It sucks, I know. But hey, I'm having a great time watching Happy Days reruns.

You stay in touch too,

George

* * *

Fr:ebethbnet

To: george at jrusselonline

Subject: Well hello again- again.

You're ill? I hope you're better. Chicken noodle soup does it for me. That, plus old screwball comedies and peanut butter chocolate chip cookies. Wow- it's almost worth getting sick, isn't it? Enjoy the Fonz.

Stay in touch

Lizzie

* * *

Fr: george at jrusselonline

To: ebethbnet

Subject: We've got to stop meeting like this.

I'm feeling much better thank you. I'm not so sure what a screwball comedy is, but the chicken noodle soup and the cookies helped. A nice lady in my building turned up like, I'm not kidding, a minute after I read your email with them both. It was meant to be. I only wish you were here to share them with me. Then you could teach me your screwball ways.

George

* * *

Fr: ebethbnet

To: george at jrusselonline

Subject: Then stop emailing me.

Good. Look up screwball comedies online. They're too awesome for me to explain. But I would totally like a weekend off to come and watch them, particularly _The Lady Eve _and maybe _Bringing Up Baby_ while eating cookies. It would be educational _and_ nutritional. Oh, I never told you about the campaign, and that was a few weeks ago now. It's all OK. My sister has left. Various things all got a bit much, so it's suddenly a bit lonely, but it's still good. Senator Bingley is still just as inspirational. It is funny though being party to decisions. You suddenly realise that it's not just him. A lot of what he does is a group decision, or is at least talked through. It's like you suddenly understand how it all works, and that maybe it can never be as satisfying as I think it should be. I don't know. Will on the other hand is very simple- he's mad. It's the decision I've come to. There's no other explanation.

Lizzie

* * *

Fr: george at jrusselonline

To: ebethbnet

Subject: No

That would explain a lot. He done anything crazy lately?

Oh, got to go. Sorry it's so short.

Stay in touch, despite my crappy email.

George

* * *

Fr: ebethbnet

To: george at jrusselonline

Subject: Ah- you're sweet.

Oh, where'd you go? I'm guessing you're now well enough to leave your apartment. You get the skinny on some deal? I feel like Bernstein and Woodward. At the same time.

Give my love to Deep Throat.

Lizzie

* * *

Fr: george at jrusselonline

To: ebethbnet

Subject: Like sugar

Oh I was out. Like you say, getting the skinny. It's the first time I've been out in a while. That flu really knocked me back. I've been staying in watching movies.

Love,

George

* * *

Fr: ebethbnet

To: george at jrusselonline

Subject: Like a headache

I was going to be coy about this, but you big fat liar! I saw the picture of you with Mary King on People. If you're going to run around smooching hot ladies, at least choose ones that aren't routinely snapped by the paparazzi.

Anyway, I hope you've been watching good movies. None of that Adam Sandler nonsense.

Lizzie

* * *

Fr: george at jrusselonline

To: ebethbnet

Subject: Don't be like that.

Yeah. I'm sorry. I've been dating her. It's weird though, you know? I really like you Lizzie, it's just, you know, you're not here, and you can't be, and she is… I suck. I'm a truly horrible person. You should take back every nice thing you've said. I don't know how- use a vacuum maybe? Anyway, please do stay in touch. Despite my ratishness.

Love,

George

* * *

Fr: ebethbnet

To: george at jrusselonline

Subject: For you…all right then

It's alright. I couldn't expect you to want this. I'm never around. I work terrible hours. Plus, she looks really nice. Lydia phoned me the other day, scandalised that you were dating her, but, you know, you're a nice guy, she's a brilliant actress, you deserve each other. And I'm not going to take back one single thing I said. And you're not a rat. So calm down and go eat a cookie.

Love,

Liz

* * *

What's the chance? Of all the people in all the world, she had to be my aunt, and had to choose him to be partner, and he had to choose her to marry, and she had to choose Elizabeth Bennet to be her best friend. It's like fate, except worse. What's that? Doom? Oh hell.

* * *

**Thanks for the reviews again, lovely people.**

**I really do appreciate help with inaccuracies. I'd rather correct them than look stupid. Therefore, I have edited out the **_**whilst**_**s. I had also entirely forgotten the whole whilst/while thing. That may come in handy. You (**katesie**) were also correct about the Senator thing. I had smugly written an author's note saying that Charles was not in fact a Senator, and therefore my use of Congressman was correct, except then I noticed that I called him Senator about fifteen times. So. Sorry about that. It has also been corrected. **

**...in fact, it has been corrected again, back the other way. ****Cross referencing my notes (extensive) and Wikipedia (not entirely reliable but the best I have), I realise that my mistake wasn't in referring to him as a Senator when he was in the lower house, but in thinking he was in the lower house when he is, in fact, a Senator. From Massachusetts. Incidentally, he does also have military experience. I haven't entirely decided how much. Let's say- some. ****I really had researched that. Maybe too much. I'm not sure how it happened. It's probably the nargles. **


	15. Camp Rosings

**Camp Rosings**

Once the all encompassing shock has worn off, Will pulls himself together. "Well you're going…I'm going…" he begins lamely. "I'll give you a lift from the airport."

"Really Will, it's fine. I can do it myself."

He shoots her a sardonic look. "It's three hours from Albany. I already have a car rented there. It's fine."

"No, really."

"It's fine," he says again, firmly.

"OK," says Lizzie, quietly.

Will looks up and sighs. "Sorry," he says and runs his hands over his already messy hair. "This can't be much fun for you either."

"What isn't?"

He grimaces. "Meeting my aunt." He smiles, ever so slightly. "This is why I rent a car. So I can get away."

Lizzie smiles back. "She's that nice?"

"Yeah," he says. "She's a regular riot." He smiles again. "Have you booked your flight?"

She shakes her head. "No, I wasn't sure where I'd be flying from."

"OK," he says. "I'll book it now."

"Oh no it's fine."

He rolls his eyes. "Elizabeth, I have clocked up so many air miles as you wouldn't believe. Let me do this."

"But…"

"Seriously," he says, picking up his cell phone. "I have to see my aunt out of duty. You're doing this because you appear to be either incredibly kind or incredibly dumb."

It doesn't come across the way he clearly intended. "Well," he says, registering her raised eyebrows and distinct lack of smile. "That didn't come out they way it was supposed to." He sighs again. "Seriously. My aunt is no picnic. I have air miles just waiting to be used. Just let me do it."

She gives up. "Fine," she says, and slumps into the seat opposite him in the hotel restaurant. "When will it be?"

He fishes around in his pockets for paper, wadded up, and with his phone clamped to his ear with his shoulder, he peels the pages apart, revealing page upon page of beautifully penned tight black lines of words. "Uh…here. Seven on Friday morning. You all right with that?" he asks, between giving information down the phone.

"Fine," she says again.

He looks at her for a moment in silence, and then turns away, talking to someone at the other end to arrange what will surely be, a trip to hell.

* * *

Fr: ebethbnet

To: jfbennet

Subject: Welcome to hell

So, we're here. I am alive, despite a mammoth trip across the country with one Will Darcy. I managed to avoid speaking to him much pretty much all the way, through a combination of books, my iPod and sleep. Not that he was bursting to hear my every thought, to know my every whim. His loss, right?

OK, so I said we were going to Lady Catherine de Bourgh's (of _De Bourgh and Darcy Advertising_- apparently she ran it with Will's Mom before she died- that's a whole other story. You just wait) _house_ right? I speculated on the number of rooms it must have for her to invite the managers of her company along with her family and Charley and Bill's nearest and dearest for this weird company party/ family Christmas/ engagement soiree. We arrived at a number around the hundred mark. Well, once you have fifty rooms, you may as well have a hundred. Anyway, what did not occur to me is that she lives in the Adirondacks. Prime holiday camp land. Are you getting where I'm going? The woman owns what is essentially a holiday camp. But there are no small girls running round with friendship bracelets and badges. Oh no. She owns it as a home. There's a massive house in the middle with prime lake views (I mock, but it is beautiful) right across to the mountains. Then, among the trees, there are like twenty other houses. I kid you not. Well, maybe a few less, but it must be about that when you add in servants quarters (oh yes- above the stables) and the accommodation above the boat house, the gate house...you get the drift. It would appear that Bill is an authority on all things Camp Rosings as he gave us an _hour long tour_. It felt like double that. Will sloped off as soon as we got here, leaving me stuck with Bill and the many facts he has up his sleeves about ceiling height and how many antlers are in the chandelier. Yes. The tour finally ended at the little cabin that I'm sharing with Bill, Charley, Mr Lu, and Miri, who is here but under extreme duress. Mr Lu (what is his first name? Have we ever known? Anyway) is enamoured of Bill and his facts. Mrs Lu is missing as apparently her mother shattered her pelvis or something. Anyway, she's well out of it.

So the cabin. It's actually pretty nice. Miri and I are sharing a room, and I am remaining blissfully unaware of how Charley and Bill are sorted. I have no wish to know. There's a little living room with a bay window and a seat in it, all over looking the lake which right now, has mist rolling across it. It's pretty cold but we also have a little fire, so it's cosy. Inevitably, soon we're going to have to go across to the big house for dinner, but right now Miri and I are wallowing in the non-Bill, non-Lady Catherineishness of it all. Long may it reign.

Oh, and Will's Mom. Well. We were talking in the car (yes. Like grown ups. Weird.) as he drove, and he was thawing out a bit again. He was telling me about this place and his aunt, and he said how she was the opposite of his Mom and her other sister, so I, making small talk, asked how they're different, and he went quiet for a minute, and then said how his aunt Catherine was incredibly controlling and success focussed, and everything else didn't matter. So I'm like, 'and that's not like your Mom?' expecting to really not just break the ice but smash it. He'd tell me about his Mom. I'd share some classic Mom stories. The time she made me cookies that looked like monkeys because I was sick. The time she tried to teach me to ride a horse and I fell off. You know, funny, happy stories. It would all have been nice. And then he goes, 'my Mom _was _completely different', not putting the emphasis on 'was', just saying it, and then he clammed up. We had another whole hour of almost uninterrupted silence. And it was then I realised, not only his Mom died but now I remember, George told me that his Dad died too, like ten years ago. The guy is all alone apart from this gorgon of an aunt and a sister, I think. And I kind of feel sorry for him. Not enough to excuse what he did to George, or his terrible conversational manner, but still.

Anyway, we're supposed to dress for dinner. As opposed to going naked one would presume? Miri is freaking out. She already has every dress she brought with her lined up on the bunk. So, I should go and counsel her. Have a nice time. I hope you're all right. I miss you like crazy.

All my love,

Lizzie xxxxx

* * *

We grumble all through dressing, through doing our hair and make-up, through putting on our coats again because it is now icy, and then grumble all the way along the little paths to the house, which is lit up at every window, swags of greenery along the veranda, fairy lights along the rails. It is, I have to admit, pretty festive. As we walk through the door, Bill swoops down on us and propels us towards a lady who looks at us suspiciously. She is the least festive person I've ever seen. Imagine Mrs Santa, then imagine her complete opposite. She's bony, with what is clearly a fantastically expensive haircut, a sleek angled bob which slices across her sculpted face with in a shiny, straight, grey swathe. Her outfit is black, head to toe, and probably cashmere, and yet there is not a speck of dust on it, not a single sign that she has done anything or touched anyone since dressing. Anyway, Bill pushes us towards her, and says in his smarmiest of tones, "Ma'am, this is Charlotte's sister, Maria and her best friend, Elizabeth Bennet." I almost feel the urge to curtsy. I resist the urge with everything I have.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," she says smoothly, and without a hint of sincerity.

"And you," I reply. I can do this. I can. "It's a beautiful house."

"Mm…hmm," mumbles Miri beside me, nodding.

"Thank you," she says, and smiles, though not quite up to her eyes. "I understand that you know my nephew."

"Yes," I say. "I'm working on the Charles Bingley campaign with him."

"He's running it, is he not?"

"Yes."

"Then you work _for_ him, do you not?"

I fight the irrepressible urge to poke her in the eye. "Of course," I say, swallowing hard.

"And have you met my other nephew?"

"No, I didn't know that you had another."

She raises barely visible eyebrows. "Well, of course. Richard is the head of the New Jersey office."

"Oh?" I say.

She almost smiles again. "Yes. He's very successful. Ah," she continues, "Richard, this young lady works for William."

She places a bony hand on the arm of a guy walking past, and he stops, and turns. "Really?" he says. "Bad luck." He holds out a hand. "Richard Fitzwilliam."

"Elizabeth Bennet," I say and shake the hand. He looks a lot like Will. Slightly shorter, not quite as attractive (did I just…? Oh go with it. I can't deny it when my stomach leaps every time the guy smiles) but _grinning_. Actually grinning. Can he really be related to Will?

Lady Catherine raises her eyebrows again at Miri, who blushes and then mumbles out "Miri Lu," and smiles nervously.

He turns to her, and shakes her hand. "Was that _Mary_?"

"Her name is Maria" says Lady Catherine, haughtily.

"She prefers Miri," I say. Well I can't help it. Poor Miri was wilting under the gaze of Lady Gorgon herself.

"Miri," says Richard. "That suits you much better. Please call me Rich."

I think I love the guy. Miri smiles properly, and not that slightly strained one she's had for the last few hours, but relaxes. He turns back to me. "And was it Elizabeth? Or do you prefer…?"

"Lizzie, please," I say.

He nods. "Good. Well you've met Aunt Kate. Come and meet some other people."

Lady Catherine stutters something, but he ignores her, and sweeps us along into further rooms. "Ah, you feel that?" he asks as we walk. "The fresher air, the sense that the world may not be swiftly coming to an end?"

I glance up at him. Maybe craziness runs in the family.

"That is what happens when you get a good ten foot away from my aunt. Seriously, she's like the Ring."

"The horror movie?"

He grins. "Well, I meant _'Lord of the'_ but that still works. Here," he says, and we enter what is presumably the den, or one of the many. It's smaller than the other rooms so far, cosier, and has the first signs of family. Actual photos line the walls, and not just ones of Lady Catherine meeting the Jordanian royal family. Family groups, and holiday snaps cover the wall, and in the bay window, a Christmas tree stands, weighed down with popcorn, messily glittered salt dough, gingerbread, and cardboard stars. Sitting on the couch is a woman weirdly like Lady Catherine, but much less polished. Her hair is sandy, and softly curled up. Her shoes are slipped off, and she is sitting with a little boy, no more than four, in her lap, as she reads to him from _The Night before Christmas_. Beside her sits a young woman, a little girl in her arms as she leans over and listens too. I seriously never expected to see this here, this kind of cosy familiarity. The younger woman looks up as we walk in, and she stands up.

"Lizzie, Miri, this is my wife, Juliet" says Rich in a low tone

"Jules," she says, and holds out her free hand. "It's nice to meet you."

"Lizzie works with Will," he says.

"Bad luck."

"Hey!"

I turn round to see Will, standing in the corner, another toddler sleeping with complete abandonment against his chest, a little head nestled in the hollow of his neck.

Jules grins, and Rich laughs, quietly. "That's what _I_ said," he says.

We sit at a little cluster of armchairs, and I reach out a hand to stroke the downy blonde curls of the girl in Jules' arms. "And who's this?"

"Lucy," she says, and settles her more comfortably, "and Will's got Bella."

I glance up, and catch his eye, watching me. "They're beautiful," I say. Will smiles briefly, and then looks down at his niece.

"And Sam's being read to by his Granny."

"We're actually finished," the said Granny says, and Sam blinks sleepily.

Rich stands up, and crouches in front of his son. "Then it's time for bed, buddy."

"I'm not tired," he says, blinking even slower.

"OK," says Rich, and scoops him up in his arms. Almost immediately Sam's head lolls on Rich's shoulder, and they pause only for Jules to kiss Sam's dark curls, before Rich takes him through another door, and up to bed.

"Did you say you work for Will?" the lady asks as she takes Rich's vacated seat.

"Yes."

"Oh you poor dear."

Jules laughs again, as Will rolls his eyes. "All right," he mutters, and begins to sway slightly, a hand circling Bella's back.

"I'm Kate's sister, Harriet."

"It's nice to meet you. I'm Lizzie, this is Miri."

Harriet smiles a friendly smile at Miri. "Are you Charlotte's sister?" she asks.

Miri nods, and manages to cough out a "yes".

Harriet smiles again. "Yes, you've got the same eyes. She's a nice girl." She leans back in the armchair, and sighs. "So, how much will you give me to spike the punch?"

Suddenly I realise that this weekend might not be so bad after all.

* * *

**So, if you read the last chapter since about Thursdayish, you'll be fine. For everyone else, Charles is back to be being a Senator. Cross referencing my notes (extensive) and Wikipedia (not entirely reliable but the best I have), I realise that my mistake wasn't in referring to him as a Senator when he was in the lower house, but in thinking he was in the lower house when he is, in fact, a Senator. From Massachusetts. Incidentally, he does also have military experience. I haven't entirely decided how much. Let's say- some. (Those who now read the last post will notice that I couldn't work this out twice…sorry for copying and pasting. It's just too hot.)**

**Anyway, thank you for sticking with this through all my editing back and forth. Hopefully, that's the last of it. Also, anyone fearing that I'm going to get a few more posts in and then lose inspiration, have no fear. I finished writing on Thursday. It is saved in three separate places. Aside from my death, it will get fully posted. It might take a while though. Thanks again. FP.**


	16. Getting dressed for the big battle

**Thank you to all who review, and all who read. Please continue to do so.**

* * *

**Getting dressed for the big battle**

Fr: ebethbnet

To:jfbennet

Subject: Not quite hell, just a suburb

This is a very quick email. I thought I'd have time, but while we were sitting at breakfast, Lady Catherine announced that we're all going for a walk round the lake. It doesn't appear to be optional. Well, I doubt she's going, or her daughter who has only emerged this morning. Apparently she's 'too weak' for parties. She's an academic and needs to preserve her strength. Or something. Anyway, Anne de Bourgh looks like the undead. So it may actually be quite fun, without them. Will's cousin Rich is here, with his Mom (so unlike Lady C other than in the face, as you wouldn't believe), his wife and his kids, who are super cute, and they're all making this much more fun. Also, I wouldn't put it past him to try and pants Bill. He appears to be that sort. And I would help. If I hear a single sentence more about twig work and birch bark highlights, I'm going to go insane.

Love you lots, and while I wish you were here, I wouldn't actually wish it on anyone.

Lizzie

xxx

* * *

"You like her."

"What?"

Rich sits down next to me as I pull on my walking shoes. "You like her. She's _the_ staffer isn't she? I knew it."

"Wait, Lizzie's the one you…" Jules is kneeling on the passage floor, wrestling Sam into his boots, and yet finds time to quiz me.

I groan. "Good grief, are you guys serious?"

"Yes," they say, almost simultaneously.

"OK," I say, and hold up a hand. "Yes, she is the one I danced with, although how you worked that out, I'll never know."

"Ha," says Rich, triumphantly, and hi-fives Jules. Actually hi-fives her. What is with these people? Rich stands up to rescue Lucy from where she has wobbly walked too far down the hall. He carries her back with a thoughtful expression, despite the fact that she is trying to lever off him with a well placed hand in the throat. "And you do like her." He puts her down, and she immediately sets back off the way she had been.

I look between them for a second. I can't lie to Rich. Never have been able to, not even when I wanted to. "Maybe," I say, and sigh. "It's seriously complicated."

"Because George Wickham got to her first."

"Partly that, and partly a whole bunch of other things."

Jules finally manages to finish ramming Sam into his winter-wear and he shoots off down the hall, circling Lucy, and coming back past Bella who is placidly sitting on the floor, playing with my shoelaces.

"Like what?" asks Jules, as she finds her own walking shoes.

I shrug. "We're different."

"Not irreconcilably," says Rich as he goes off again to rescue Lucy.

"I don't know. I'm not sure there's any point in even thinking about it. We're cut from different cloth."

Rich deposits Lucy back at our feet, and the proceeds to sit on the floor, legs out stretched, cutting off her access. "So make a holly, jolly patchwork."

I give him my most withering stare, and he shrugs.

"What?"

"A patchwork?"

"Yes," he says, and grins. "Right then," he says, standing up. "I believe we're supposed to be meeting by the boathouse." And with that, he sweeps up both his daughters into his arms, and walks off down the hall, Sam skipping along behind. I look at Jules as she picks up everything that Rich has forgotten. She catches my eye and grins.

"Come on. Let's do this thing."

* * *

This place is stunning. There was a fresh fall of snow in the night, and everything sparkles and scrunches. Of course, the magic is slightly dampened by our tour guide, Bill, who feels the need to tell us the height of each hill, the genus of every tree, how many boats are in the boat house, how much they cost individually…The list goes on. I catch Charley's gaze, and she rolls her eyes as her fiancée begins on the generator and how it works, but her fingers are intertwined with his. There really is no accounting for taste. I hang back with Rich, Jules and the kids. Oh, and Will. Unfortunately.

"So," asks Rich. "What's Will like to work for?"

I catch Will's eye, and he smiles slightly. "Oh, you know, interesting."

"Interesting how?"

"Oh…I…"

"Come on Lizzie, spill the beans…"

Jules digs him in the ribs. "Stop being mean. She has to go back and work for him again on Monday, while you swan back off to the office."

Rich grins. "Fine," he says. "When did you first meet him?"

"At a fund raiser at my parents' farm in Tennessee."

Rich spins round. "She's from Tennessee, Will!"

"I know." He rolls his eyes at his cousin. Clearly he is not exactly enjoying this inquisition.

"So clearly at least _one_ good thing has come out of Tennessee."

Will raises an eyebrow. "Even though it has no state dinosaur?"

This conversation is quickly getting weird. Rich laughs, and stops to pick up Bella, where she has fallen into a snow drift, and is now looking balefully at her snow covered hands. "It's all right monkey," he murmurs, and wipes them off, before turning back to me.

"So, was he running round in a state of nervous panic?"

"Do you see me as some kind of roadrunner?"

Rich grins at Will again over Bella's head, and then turns back to me.

"Uh, no actually," I say. "He was suffering from the mother of all headaches, and wasn't really very chatty."

Jules laughs, and puts an arm round Will. "That sounds like you."

"How could you tell?" asks Will looking at me, still clearly wondering from that first time.

I shrug. "It was in your eyes. You looked the way I feel when I think my head's going to explode."

Rich and Jules exchange grins, and I am immediately suspicious. What is it with these two?

Will laughs, quietly. "Yeah, well it was pretty bad."

"Your headache or the evening?"

He winces. "Both? I'm not exactly the party kind of guy."

Rich and Jules both splutter into laughter. "You can say that again," says Rich, and claps Will on the back.

"Uncle Will Uncle Will Uncle Will Uncle Will," shouts Sam as he runs up to us. Harriet has stopped ahead, watching as her grandson pelts back along the path to his uncle. Will, that chameleon of chameleons, immediately stops being such an ass. He grins. Actually grins. I almost stop walking I'm so surprised. He hunkers down and holds out his arms, and Sam throws himself into them.

"There's a squirrel in a tree and it's got a nut in its paws and Dad said you know about animals and come and tell me about the squirrel," he says, in one long, breathless stream.

Lucy, toddling in front of us, frowns, and says "wirrel" firmly. This kid may be small, but boy is she determined. Jules laughs.

"Fine, come on my little squirrels." She picks up Lucy, and walks with Will who is no doubt getting dizzy as Sam circles him, running all the while. They walk off ahead, between the trees up to Harriet, and Rich grins down at me.

"So come on," he says. "Now he's out of earshot. What's he really like?"

I sigh, and smile. "Difficult. Complicated. Brilliant politically, but…"

"…emotionally stunted?"

I splutter. "Well, I..."

Rich grins. "Yep. Emotionally stunted. I'd never say it to him, because, you know, he'd probably throw himself off of a bridge, but he's more like Aunt Kate than he'd like to believe."

"Really? That bad?"

Rich grins again. "Not normally, but you know, he is very controlling. He likes things to be done his way."

I roll my eyes. "Sure. Because if it isn't his way, it's clearly wrong?"

Rich shrugs. "He finds it hard to trust people. He's a why-would-I-get-someone-else-to-do-it-when-I-can-do-it-better? guy."

I frown. "Then why run the campaign? Why not be the one running?"

"Because that's not how Will is. He loves his job, and he loves all things politics, but he'd much rather be the guy who the other guy depends on than the actual guy."

I roll my eyes again. "Sure. Because he's the shy type?"

Rich grins. "Well he's not exactly the public speaking type. He'd probably end up screwing up, majorly."

"Yeah, I guess."

"He's much better at organising, at getting the best out of someone else." He shrugs, and sets down a squirming Bella to walk again. "I mean, he went as far as to interfere with Bingley's personal life, just to make sure he didn't screw up."

I'm not sure I can do this much longer. I'm dangerously close to not thinking that Will is a total ass. I mean, he's controlling, and mean, and a completely closed book, but maybe he isn't all that bad? I mean, maybe there's more to him.

"Yeah," continues Rich. "Apparently Bingley was falling for one of his staffers, and Will thought it was a bad idea, and practically got her fired."

Wait a second. "What? When was this?"

Rich looks slightly startled. It may be at the panic in my voice. "Uh, I don't know. A few weeks ago, I guess."

I thought I had hated someone before. I was certainly no fan of Justin Cox when he cheated on me. Or Cindy Draper after she stole my assignment in English and then passed it off as her own. But now? _This _is hate. It leaves me reeling.

"Why the hell would he do that?" I say, not exactly masking my passion. I'm too angry for pretending right now.

Rich looks a little worried. "I don't know?" he says, nervously. "He always has his reasons."

Yeah. I'm sure. I take a few deep breaths, and stop walking.

"Are you all right?" asks Rich, watching me, concerned.

"I'm..." I was going to say that I was fine, but frankly, there's a lump in my throat like an iceberg, and my hands are shaking. Right now I feel the closest I ever have to losing control. "No, not really. I think I'll go back to the cabin."

"Do you want me to walk you back?" he asks.

"No, no, it's fine," I manage. "Some time on my own will do me good." I smile at him, trying to assure him that I'm not going to close the door of the cabin and have a coronary. "I'll see you later."

He nods, clearly unsure. "OK," he says. "Let me know if there's anything you need."

With that, I turn in the snow, and walk back the way we've come. I reach up impatiently to brush away hot, angry tears, and just manage to get back to the cabin before I can't stand it any longer. I kick off my walking shoes, drop jacket and gloves and scarf in chairs in the living room, and the climb into my bunk. It's cosy, solitary warmth wraps me in a jolt of home, and suddenly, the real tears come, thick and fast.

* * *

Everyone returns while Lizzie sleeps fitfully. When she wakes, the sun has set, the bedroom cast in gloomy shadows. She wakes with a headache, and immediately remembers everything that she found out. There is nothing to do about it. She cannot confront him at his aunt's house. She cannot see him, especially not see him and remain silent. She climbs stiffly out of the top bunk, and wanders to the bathroom, where it turns out, washing her face does little to help the headache. Then she scuffs into the living room.

"Oh, Lizzie, you're awake."

"Hmm." she mumbles in response.

"Rich said that you weren't feeling well. How about now?"

In any other circumstance, Lizzie would have told Charlotte everything, but now, with Bill just walking in, and Mr Lu reading his paper by the fire, there is nothing to say. "Uh...I'm not feeling great. I think I'll skip tonight, if that's all right."

"But this is the dinner party," begins Bill. "You can't miss..."

"Of course it's all right," butts in Charlotte. "You stay in and rest."

"But Charlotte, this is an important night. Lady Catherine expects everyone to be there."

Charlotte shakes her head. "Lady Catherine can go..." She clearly thinks better of her first thought. "I'll explain it to her, and I'm sure she'll understand."

Lizzie and Bill wear similar expressions of scepticism.

Charlotte shrugs, and smiles at Lizzie. "It'll be all right. Is there anything I can get you?"

Lizzie shakes her head. "I'll be fine. We've got tea and a kettle, and cookies around. I don't need anything else."

Charlotte smiles. "All right then."

Bill starts to look panicky. "Are you ready? Mr Lu? Miri? MIRI?"

Miri appears at the door of Charlotte's room, scrubbed and groomed and dressed. "I'm here," she says, grim. "You're not coming?" she asks, eyes narrowed.

"You know, headache," says Lizzie, waving vaguely around her face.

"Lucky," mutters Miri, and stalks towards the door.

Charlotte grimaces, stands up, and then herds everyone over to the door. "Oh well, let's go" she says in a sing-song voice. To Miri, she adds in a low tone, "the sooner we go, the sooner we come back." Lizzie smiles slightly, relieved to see some glimmer of her friend through the new fiancée of Bill. With a slam, the door closes, leaving Lizzie in blissful silence.

* * *

Fr: george at jrusselonline

To: ebethbnet

Subject: rat, slinking back

Hey you,

So, after your last incredibly forgiving email I realised that I had been a complete skeeze. So, Mary is history. I thought you should know. I was a rat. She was nice and all, but she was no you.

Maybe we can meet up soon? Let me know when you're in a town for more than one night and I'll come see you.

Love,

George

* * *

"_I_ _thought you should know_?" I mutter. "And what am I supposed to do about that?"

I'm sitting in the big armchair in front of the fire, my laptop propped up in my lap, a cup of tea on the arm. And I'm grumpy as hell. Well, more than grumpy. I'm grumpy about George. I'm furious about Will. Furious and bitterly disappointed, and sad, and betrayed and...well. A whole bunch of stuff. I consider typing a snotty email back to George, thanking him for now being ready to be with me, now that he has apparently dumped someone else. Boy, do I feel special. I take a breath. This isn't fair on George. He was only trying to be nice, and now I'm taking out all my Will-related anger on him. I take another deep breath, and attempt to calm down. I stop writing snotty emails, and start on my resignation.

* * *

Lizzie is shaken from her reverie of resignation writing, trying to walk the fine line between righteous and annoying, by a knock on the door. "Come in," she calls, still feeling too grumpy and tired to get up. She immediately regrets her slack guard of the door, when Will Darcy walks in. It's weird, Lizzie muses, as he appears to be the kind who would linger in doorways and walk unsurely, and yet here he is, striding across the room. Of course, as soon as he gets to the other side of the room, he spins on his heel, and starts striding back the other way, a one man marching band. Lizzie remains sitting still, curled up in the armchair. She watches rather like a tennis spectator, following him back and forth across the room, all the while with a confused, vaguely irritated expression on her face.

"Did you want something?"

Will glances at her mid-walk, but doesn't stop.

Irritation begins to build to something more resembling anger. She snaps closed her laptop, thumps it onto the coffee table, and then stands up. Only then does she remember the headache. Exacerbated by leaping to her feet all too quickly, Lizzie staggers slightly, one hand to her head. Will stops walking.

"Are you all right?" he asks, suddenly very close, a hand on her arm. She doesn't say anything, just attempts to blink the headache out of her eyes. "You're still feeling ill? Charlotte said..."

"It's just a headache," she says thickly.

"Have you had a drink? Come and get some fresh air. You'll feel better, right?" A ghost of a smile plays around his mouth.

It's just too much for Lizzie. "Don't make fun of me," she snaps, and shakes off his hand.

Will bites his lip, and steps back. "Right." He stands still and looks at her for the longest minute of her life. Then he shakes his head, and walks out of the door, it slowly closing behind him. Lizzie watches him go, and breathes heavily, feeling like suddenly the air has rushed back into the suffocating room. Before she has even had a chance for a good lungful though, Will strides back through the door, pushing it back open, slamming against the wall. "I forgot something," he says, walks right over and takes her in his arms. "I love you," he says, and kisses her.


	17. Love means

**Love means never having to say you're sorry**

I never thought this would happen to me. I know. You see beautiful, young, willowy girls who have become the next top model saying _that_, and you just want to throw soft fruit at them. Or a pineapple. Because of course they thought it would happen to them. They only had to look in the mirror. The same for stunning actresses with a bank account the size of Fort Knox. 'I never dreamed it would happen to me,' they say. 'I'm just an ordinary girl and who would have ever thought...?' Then, you arm yourself with a handful of popcorn/coconut/metal book end, and hurl it at your tv. You really never thought it was possible did you? Through your engagement to George Clooney, your fling with Orlando Bloom, your "friendship" with Eric Bana, you never once visualised yourself possibly married? Or happy? Of course, the other people who say that are they ones who have discovered that condoms don't work one hundred percent of the time. Or the people whose relations die hideously in some way. So really, 'never thinking this would happen to me,' appears to not work either way. Don't get me wrong. I'm no exaggerator. And if I am, it's not to the level of thinking that this is a great tragedy. But really? Will Darcy telling me he loves me? How could I possibly have even imagined that was round the corner?

* * *

"Uh, what?" is just about the first thing I croak out once his lips leave mine.

He leans his forehead against mine, hot breath on my face, a hand in my hair, the other at my waist. "I think I love you," he says slowly, and pulls back. His face is flushed, his eyes are greener than usual, less stormy.

It's like all the little cogs are clicking into place. "You what?" I say, and step back. "You _love _me?"

He lowers his hands, and stands a little awkward. "Look, I know it's sudden, and I know that it's not like we've been dating or anything..."

I laugh. Really, what else is there to do?

"...but it's just how I feel."

"And what do you expect me to do about it?"

He blinks heavily. "I...don't know," he says, carefully. "I just wanted to be honest."

"Honest?" I ask. "Honest?"

He nods, stride and swagger dropping by the pound, every second that he looks at me. He frowns a little. "There's no need to be angry about it," he says. "It's not like it's a bad thing."

"Oh no, it's just about the best news I heard all day," I say and can almost feel the sarcasm whip round and slap him in the face. He winces.

"It's not like this was easy for me," he says, frowning more. "It took a lot for me to do this."

"I'm sure."

He gives me a look that dances between anger and fear. "Would you give me something here?" he snaps.

"What, an undying profession of my love? Sorry, but I need to be _honest,_" I reply.

He winces again. "I _am _being honest. I couldn't let this go on and have you not know about it."

"Yes, because you never do that Will. You never do something and then hide it from everyone."

He looks at me dangerously. The storm has returned to his eyes. It is now some kind of typhoon. "Are you talking about George Wickham?"

I had totally forgotten about that. In comparison, I couldn't care less about George right now, but now, I nod. "Partly," I say. "But mainly Jane."

He raises his eyebrows. "What I did, I did for your sister as much as for Charles."

"As much as for _you_?" I ask. "Hell, Will, you'd just about trample anyone to get what you want, right? I mean, just as long as you're honest, who cares?"

"I _have_ been honest about that. I've never lied to you."

I groan, exasperated. "Yeah, it's not hard to not lie if you never talk." I sigh, and run my hands through my hair. "I mean, how can you possibly even think that you…you love me, if you never, _ever_ talk to me? You don't know a single thing about me other than what you've decided."

"What I've decided?" he repeats.

I'm on a roll. "Well I certainly know nothing about you."

He snarls. Actually snarls. "I'm sure you already know enough to make judgements on my character. What _did _you say to Richard once I was out of earshot?"

"Seriously?" I say. I can't believe him. I can't believe this whole freaking conversation. "You hide behind your own self righteous honesty, and yet don't trust anyone? How screwed up are you?"

"Not so screwed up that I don't realise what a stupid idea this was."

"Oh, so at least you've got that."

There is a lull. We step back, and breathe. Whether we are done, or potentially preparing for the second of fifty-two rounds, is undecided.

He breathes heavily, and runs a hand over his hair. "Richard made it sound so easy," he mutters. I'm not sure if it is for me, but right now, propriety and actual manners are taking something of a back seat.

"Did he?" I say, turning away.

"Yeah." Will almost laughs. He shakes his head slowly. "You know, I said it wouldn't work. I said we were cut from different cloth…"

"What, you're silk and I'm a potato sack?" I spit at him.

"What? No!" He straightens up from where he has been leaning, head in hands, against the back of the chair.

"Sure," I say, and sit down again. I'm done with this.

"I didn't say that," he says. "I certainly didn't mean it."

I look up at him. "But you thought it."

He looks back at me, blankly, breathing heavily.

"You thought how could you possibly be with a woman so far beneath you. That you're from a prestigious family, that you have travelled all over, and that I'm some home-spun redneck who had barely ever left Tennessee until the nice men rescued me. You thought what a backward life I lead. You thought that my family was so different from yours that…"

"I HAVE NO FAMILY," he bellows. He closes his eyes, and breathes, holding onto the back of the chair with white knuckles. "I'm sorry if I have made you think that," he begins shakily, "and I think anyone would admit, we are totally different." He swallows. "And I'll be honest," he says with a gracious lack of emphasis, "your family is no picnic, your background is not what I know, and certain members of my family would not approve."

"Wow," I say, grim. "Do carry on. You're making me feel so special."

He stares at me for a second. "_That's _your problem," he says slowly. "That I didn't flatter you. That I wasn't thrilled about hiring someone with very little experience. That I didn't sweet talk you."

"You think I wanted flattery?"

He ignores the question. "I don't think that you're angry that I said I loved you," he says. "You're angry because I didn't say it in the right way."

"Damn straight that's why I'm angry," I say. "You somehow have professed your love in a way to make me think that were you the last man on earth, I still wouldn't want to spent a single minute more with you."

He takes a step back, and pauses. "Well," he says. "Then I shan't waste any more of your time. I think we've both said quite enough."

I don't say anything.

"I…" He begins to say something as he now stands in the door, before he shakes his head, and continues walking out.

"I'll email the Senator my resignation tonight," I say.

He stops in the doorway, his back to me, and says, "fine," hollowly, before continuing out the door. It slowly closes behind him, and I turn and stare blindly at the fire for a few minutes, before picking up my laptop and finishing my resignation. As calmly as I know, I email it, close the laptop again, and then, leaving my cold cup of tea and crumbs where they were, I return to my room, climb into my bed, and finally let myself cry.

* * *

"Janey? Hey, it's Lizzie. Well, I'm coming home. It's a long story, and right now, I really don't feel like talking about it. Anyway, I got a lift from Lady Catherine's house down to Albany with a really nice couple, but because it's Christmas the flights were all crazy busy, and really expensive, but I knew that before. Anyway, I'm catching the next bus out of here. It's leaving in half an hour, and so I'll be home in Nashville at about eight tomorrow evening. If you could come and pick me up, I'd be super grateful. I guess it'll be good to have that time to calm down and regroup, or something. So, I can't wait to see you. I love you. Uh…bye."

* * *

Jane snaps her cell closed having listened to the message five times. "She sounds miserable."

Mary looks up. "Yeah. You know what happened?"

"No." Jane shakes her head. "I doubt she'll say much."

"Are you going to tell Mom and Dad?"

Jane bites her lip. "Not till tomorrow," she says. "Mom'll just want to know everything that happened."

"What did happen?"

"I told you, I don't know."

Mary puts her head on one side. "I meant with you."

"Oh." Jane sits still for a second. "It's all a bit…I don't know. I don't really want to…" She sighs.

"OK," says Mary, and gets up from where she was sitting in front of the fire.

Kit, sitting in the corner, glances up. "It'll be nice having you both home for Christmas," she says, and smiles slightly.

"Yeah," says Jane quietly. "It will." And then she gets up to go and help with dinner.

* * *

Lizzie turns her face away from the window where she was watching the sun rise over Pittsburgh, glittering frostily. She opens her laptop again. She really should reply to a few of the emails. There's one from Charles Bingley, bewildered, appealing for her to come back. There's no way to reply, not without dragging Will down into it, and as much as right now she would like to push him into the Grand Canyon, she just doesn't want to get into it. She'll have to with Jane. One person is enough. There's also still George's email, looming. He wants to meet up. He broke up with freaking Mary King, just for her. But no pressure Lizzie, no pressure. She sits, glowering at her inbox. Playing chicken with her, two emails appear, advertising enhancing drugs. She considers emailing them back, just to see what will happen. Then she thinks better of it. She turns back to her laptop just as her cell buzzes with a new message:

_Liz. I'll be there. On my own. No questions asked. Love you. J xxx_

Sudden, unexpected tears spring into her eyes. "This is ridiculous," she mutters, and brushes them away. Three times, in less than three days? "How hormonal can one girl be?" she mutters again, and pushes messy hair out of her face. She sighs, and turns back to her old favourite college past time of reading about celebrity babies. There is something comforting about people who were once held up as bad examples to young children finally settling down, and doing it with such apparent ease and happiness. There is something even more, she muses, in the way that they then turn around ten years later, and say how hard it is, and how they find battling animated monsters, saving the world and carrying off a PVC catsuit all in one day much easier than caring for their own child. There is also a little something about stick thin, stunning women, giving birth to chunky kids with monobrows. Some kind of poetic justice. She scrolls through the pages, and then moves on to celebrities and their bad fashion choices. It calms her, this unimportant blanket of words and pictures, pressing out everything else which is fighting for her attention. However, after an hour of gleaning what she can from the internet's most vacuous of sources, her hotmail inbox dinks in the corner, and she reluctantly finds a new email.

* * *

Fr: williamdarcy at charlesbingley

To: ebethbnet

Subject: Please don't delete this without reading it first.

Well, if you've got this far it'll be a complete miracle. I'm not sure whether I would if the situation were reversed, so thank you. It isn't my intention to repeat what I said last night. While it certainly didn't come out the way I intended, I think it still would have been distasteful to you even if I had got it out the way I had planned. It maybe had not occurred to me that we not only had a shaky relationship: perhaps it was non existent. Anyway, that is not the reason I am writing.

You said that I don't trust anyone. You said that I'm only honest because I don't tell anyone anything. Maybe this is why everything has gone wrong. I don't know. All I can do is maybe try to put that right, and the only way I know how is to tell you what happened, both with your sister, and George Wickham.

As far as Jane is concerned, I watched her growing closer to Charles, and I was initially pleased for him. She seemed nice, a perfect political partner, and she was certainly an asset in the campaign. However, as it went on, it became clear that Charles hadn't seen any distinction between Jane as a campaign staffer, and as his potential wife. I was immensely concerned that Jane's political inexperience was going to lead him into making a bad decision. No doubt you'll see this as my being controlling, not wanting anyone else to weigh in with ideas. It isn't true at all. But he was treating her opinions with too much weight. He was heading for a massive mistake, and if that had happened, had he eventually lost because of a decision he made based on Jane's opinions, it would be very hard for them to recover from that. So, I told her this. I told her that I was concerned that Charles relied too heavily on her, that maybe she could step back for a while. She was incredibly good about it. She understood. She said that she had feelings for Charles, but she saw my point entirely, and she would go back to working with her original department. It was not a demotion. It was not that I did not value her political opinion. But I did want to give them both a chance to breathe. I did not stand in their way as a couple however. I just took Jane as a _staffer_ out of the equation of staffer vs wife. They were free to still see each other. What I had not predicted was that Charles had seen the most of Jane while working. Once separated, they barely saw each other. I don't know exactly what happened, but I suspect that your sister felt that Charles clearly was not interested in her. While I, and I know you also, do not believe that, it is certainly true that beyond an initial question of what happened to Jane, and having read her resignation, Charles has not mentioned her since. Whether this is indifference or something else, I don't know. I was surprised at how fast she gave up on him. Maybe she was more indifferent than I had first thought. But that is all I had to do with them. I interfered, but not to split them up. I cannot apologise for it, as I believe it was the right thing to do.

As for George, I do not know what he has told you. No doubt it is some sob story about how unnaturally cruel I was to him. Let me put you straight.

I first met George when my family moved to New Hampshire. I was about seven at the time. His father had left a few years before, and my father felt immensely sorry for him. His mother worked hard to be able to afford what little she could for her son, and I think my father admired that. Therefore, as he was in a position where he could offer, he paid for George's education, and for his mother to go to night school and work less. He hoped that she could be in a better situation to provide for her son. Jean Wickham was certainly grateful, and George was given a big break. At least while we were young, George rewarded my father's generosity with hard work and good grades. My father was so pleased that he offered to pay for any college tuition that George wanted. Our lives were all looking up. My parents after years of disappointments finally managed to have another child, my sister, Georgiana. George always used to joke that they had named her after him.

When Georgiana was three our mother died suddenly. My father was devastated. He was completely lost without her. Soon afterwards, he moved us all down to Washington DC. I was to attend Johns Hopkins that fall, and he couldn't bear for us to be split up. It was the beginning of a long and slow decline for my father. Many things began to slip his notice, and I looked after a lot of his paper work and finances at weekends when I was home. It was due to this that I was able to see what George was really doing. He had gone to Dartmouth to study English and said he wanted to go on and study law. I hoped he meant it. I'm afraid the more I saw of his expenditures, the less I believed it. He was spending money like water and on things which my father certainly would not have approved. I tried to bring it to my father's attention a few times, but he didn't really care. George scraped his degree and was only admitted into law school by some swift talking and the promise of my father's money. A year in, my father died suddenly. When the will was read, it became clear that my father had put together a trust fund which was funding George's education. Realising this, George came to me and asked that since he was not 'enjoying' law, he could have the money to start out as a journalist. He had become someone that I barely recognised, and I am sorry to say that once George had his money, I believed, and I hoped, that I would never see him again. This however was not the case.

Two years ago, my sister moved to New York for the summer. Apart from Rich and Jules, and Catherine and Harriet, she's the only family I have, and we rely entirely on each other. Since my father moved with her back to Wales when she was about five, she has lived there ever since. The only time I knew that she had met George after her fifth birthday was when George came to get his money, when she was about ten. However, she spent her summer in New York, and remembering George vaguely, looked him up. She told me about this. She thought it would be fun to catch up. I was a little wary, knowing how George had been, but I was not about to judge him unfairly. She told me all about it afterwards, about how great he had been, all the stories they had shared. I thought that maybe he had changed. A few weeks later, her conversation was devoid of George. I believed that their one meeting together was their only one. I dropped in on her when I could, but I was incredibly busy in DC. She was rarely in, and when she was, she was eager to talk about what I was doing. I look back now, and wish that I hadn't been such an idiot.

About a month later, I got home from work late, to find her sitting on my front steps, waiting for me. She looked worried, and asked to come in. She said that she had wanted to tell me, but George had said to keep it a secret, and while she had for a while, she knew how highly I rated honesty, how she was essentially the only person in the world that I can trust, and she couldn't bear for that to be broken. It turns out, all that time, she had been with George. They had been a couple, all but living together, and now he thought they should run away to Vegas and get married. Part of her wanted to. I think she truly loved him. But she knew she had to tell me. I didn't know what to do or what to say. I didn't want to lose her, but I didn't want her to marry George that way, and I said that. We stayed up all night talking, and eventually I agreed to see George again, and maybe attend their wedding. She phoned George and told him. He was furious that she had told me, and said that she clearly didn't trust him. Then and there, he told her that she had to chose between me and him, and she couldn't have us both. Seeing her torn like that almost made me want to tell her to chose George, but we both knew that anyone who made her make that choice was not worth it. She told him as much, and he hung up on her. It seems now that George was hoping to fund himself with Georgiana's trust fund, having already used up his own money. I think this discovery hurt her more than anything else. She went back to London where she promptly failed her first semester. She's getting over it now, but I cannot forgive George for what he did. He wrung my family for all he could get, he used my sister and he tried to turn her against me. I don't know what I would have done without Georgiana.

I haven't seen George since, and only heard of him again when he surfaced writing your article. I'm sorry I was so angry about it, but you might now understand my fears at Wickham's reliability. The truth of this story can be backed up by others. I had to take a few days off work at the time, and so both my colleagues, and of course Richard and Juliet know what happened.

This is the full story of both incidents. Maybe I should have told you more before, but I'm not sure that I could have anyway.

Charles' campaign will be the lesser for you and your sister. I am sorry if you feel that I drove you both away.

Sincerely,

Will Darcy

* * *

**Thank you for all the lovely reviews. **

**This was two chapters originally, but knowing how you like to wolf down stories, I stuck them together. The second, incidentally, was called 'Rain-check on the diamond sunbursts'. I think it gave Will something of the Gilbert Blythe air. Just so you know. **


	18. We'd appreciate it if you'd check out

**We would appreciate it if you'd check out, yesterday**

"He proposed?"

Jane nearly swerves into the side of the road. "No," I say. "He did not propose. I said that he _might as well have _proposed." I take a breath and glance at my sister who is driving with an expression of disbelief. "He told me that he loves me," I qualify.

"Will Darcy? He said that?"

I nod.

"And that's why you left?"

I laugh. "Oh if only. No. His declaration of undying love led to a massive and pretty ugly fight."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

We slip into silence, broken only by Jane muttering, "Will Darcy. Said that…wow…I…wow…"

I enjoy the silence for a few minutes, and then give in. "He emailed me this morning."

"And you read it?" she asks incredulously.

I shrug. "I was on a twenty-seven hour trip. You don't think I was reading anything I could get my hands on?"

"Most people in your situation would have _slept_ Liz."

I shrug again. "I couldn't sleep."

She glances at me, shrewdly. "Have you slept since it happened?"

"Not exactly."

She shakes her head. "And they say I'm the sensitive one," she mutters. "So…was it a good email?"

I mull this over for a second. It was a very good email. It was honest. He told me everything. I guess he justified a lot of his actions. I rub my neck. "I think…it was a freaking annoying email."

"He was annoying?"

I smile, ruefully. "No. It was annoying because it turns out he's not such an ass."

Jane smiles to herself. "Really? Is someone warming to the boy who told her he _loves_ her?"

I roll my eyes, and watch her for a second. "Hey," I start, carefully. "What happened with you?"

She bites her lip. "When I left?" she asks. "It's complicated." She says it as if it's final. I just need to know.

"Look, Will told me what he did," I begin. "It was one of the many points of contention in our fight."

Jane glances at me. "It wasn't his fault."

"Well, had he not interfered, you and Charles might actually be together now rather than dancing round the subject as you did for all those months."

"Maybe," she says quietly. She's silent for a few minutes. Finally she says, "he emailed me, you know."

"Will?"

"Charlie."

She glances at me. I guess all she sees is my expression of surprise. "Have you replied?"

She shakes her head. "No. I don't know how to."

"What do you mean?"

She shrugs. "I think it was maybe a mistake."

"Going?"

"Everything."

I laugh quietly. "I really can't guess today." I sigh. "Why do you think that?"

She shrugs. "I should never have left. If I really loved him I would never have left."

That's what Will had said. Dammit.

Jane carries on. "And I should have realised that he was taking my opinions too easily. I guess it was just a big ego boost having such an important man think that you're important." Her voice cracks, and she wipes under an eye, sighing. "And if I found it all this hard, I should never have let him get so close to me. And maybe I should never have gone in the first place."

"OK, pull over" I say, and there is mercifully a well placed drive thru. I haven't eaten anything besides cookies and apples for a day, and so order myself a burger, and both of us coffee. Once settled in the corner of the grimy little car park with our food, I turn to Jane, offer her a few fries, and then take a deep breath.

"Look," I begin. "It was not a mistake. Any of it, all right?"

She looks a little bewildered.

"Of course you should have gone. It was an amazing experience. And it wasn't your fault that you didn't notice he was taking your opinions too readily. He should have been aware of that, not you. And maybe you shouldn't have left, but you said to me that you wouldn't be able to bear seeing him move on to someone else, which speaks to me of a very full heart, not some callous bimbo."

She bites her lip. "Really?"

I smile. "Yes. I think there was another point as well, but you get the gist. It was not a mistake, and you are not an idiot for doing what you did, all right?"

She smiles slowly. "OK." She steals a few more fries.

"Now let's get going. I have been travelling for over twenty-four hours, and am ready to get home."

She takes a sip of her coffee, and then passes it to me. "OK," she says again, and starts up the car.

* * *

"_I'm comin' home now to southern air so sweet, and find my way back to Tennessee…"_

"Well _that's_ not Emerson."

I didn't even realise that I had spoken out loud, until Mary commented on it. Neither for that matter, had I realised that she was behind me. She grins, and then climbs up on the rail next to me.

"Out all night?"

She shrugs. "Some of it. I had promised someone that I'd take pictures in this frost, so I went and got up early and found some good spots."

"Who?"

"Just someone."

I narrow my eyes at her, but she's no Jane. In fact, she's much more like me. If she doesn't want to tell me, then she won't. Not like Jane. She's an easy nut to crack. We sit companionably in the frosty morning air, coats done up to our chins. My coffee sends plumes of steam into the air.

"Have you got much work at the moment?" I ask, "I mean, besides your mystery photographer."

She pulls a face at me, and steals my coffee. "A bit," she concedes after a sip. "I'm a bit tied up with helping Kit out at the infant school right now. You know, her monstrously complicated ideas for their nativity play."

"You're doing the scenery?"

"Among other things." She grins, and hands me back the coffee. "So what about you? What are you going to do now?"

I shrug. "Don't know. It's so close to Christmas, I think I may leave it a little while."

"It might be the last one we all get together."

I turn, horrified. "Oh, don't say that!" I say. "I can't bear to think of us all not here for Christmas. It would be awful."

Mary shrugs in reply. "It's going to happen eventually. I mean, last year Jane only got here for what, two days?"

I frown. It may be borderline sulking. "It was enough," I mutter.

"OK," she says consolingly, patting my knee. "You think that you little Martha Stewart."

"Hey, I'm not the artist here."

She grins. "I have strictly nothing to do with raffia, and do not possess a glue gun. You're the one who sat up last year stringing popcorn for five hours."

I attempt to continue sulking. It doesn't really work. "Well first, it was Kit's idea. I was just an enabler. And second, we were watching Christmas movies at the same time."

"I remember. Dad walked out of _Emmett Otter's Jug Band Christmas_."

"Yeah, philistine."

We share a grin and turn back to watch the sun struggle through the clouds, casting the fields into glittering expanses. We both sigh.

"Good to be home?" Mary asks.

"Yeah, surprisingly."

She grins again and jumps off the fence. "See you at breakfast" she says, and disappears up the stairs to her room which stretches the length of the bunk house attic.

I take a deep breath of the freezing clean air and smile. "It _is_ good," I say to myself, and then finish my coffee.

* * *

Fr: joshlyman at whitehouse

To: williamdarcy at charlesbingley

Subject: Hey there

Hey,

Haven't heard from you for a while. I hope it's all going well. From the tracking polls, you guys appear to be doing well. Keep it up. It's all crazy here. The President appears to have only just realised that this is his last Christmas in the White House. He seems to feel the need to wish _everyone_ a Merry Christmas. Anyway, he's accepting everything that gets offered to us, to our occasional detriment. We're working every hour that we have due to this. If it goes on much longer, Donna's going to have to step in and, I don't know, do something drastic.

Anyway, I got an email from Sam the other day. He appears to be doing all right. Ainsley too. It was an extraordinarily long email- even for Sam, but there was a snippet that I thought you'd like to see. I know how much Bingley has admired his writing in the past, so I thought he appreciate it too. So:

_It will no doubt not surprise you to know that we've been keeping an eye, or maybe both, on the election. Only about seven months until the convention? We haven't got the tracking polls here, but it's looking pretty close in some areas. Dawn Lee has put up a good fight, although I'm not sure how much more she has in her, and Brand clearly was done a while ago. What do you think of Zimmerman? Ainsley has her opinions, you'll be __shocked__ to hear. And of course, Charles Bingley. Tell Will if you like (I lost his email a while ago when my laptop crashed and wiped itself) that I think he is looking fantastic recently. He was starting to look exhausted, and these last few months he has bounced back. Had I still been running, I would have been incredibly nervous. His speeches as well; has he got someone new writing for him? They've changed slightly. They've suddenly got a better rhythm, although his writing still shows through, but it's good. Really good. Let Will know, will you? At this stage in the campaign, any positive feedback is always gratefully received. I remember you getting your pants in a bunch about this time before._

See. Good, right? Well, I hope you guys will take a break, however brief over Christmas. And try not to be too much of a spaz with your staff. According to Donna I was both distant _and _incoherent. It's a wonder any of them stayed.

Merry Christmas, from me and my girls. Oh, and the President. There, that's one less person to get round. He may be the President, but he's also a nudnik.

Josh

* * *

On his desk lies a printed copy of Lizzie's resignation, with _What the hell happened?_ scrawled across the top. Will stares at the email for a second, before hurling his empty glass at the wall. He breathes heavily, then turns to see where the ice-cubes are melting amongst the shards of glass. Slowly, he heaves himself out of his chair, and goes in search of a dustpan.

* * *

Charlie Bingley cannot remember the last time he slept. He sits at his laptop in a comatose stupor, writing a line, reading it, then deleting it. Five mugs of cold coffee stand sentinel around his computer, each of a varying level of age and with varying amounts of scum on the surface. He leans back, just to let his neck crack out tensions, only to see Will, leaning in the doorway, looking just how he feels.

"When _did _we last sleep?"

Will raises one sardonic eyebrow. "Together? You don't want to check that there aren't any reporters lurking around here first before you out yourself?"

Charlie grimaces. A month ago they would have laughed about this. Now it seems to be a moment of light relief in the middle of a storm. Not a fun moment, but a moment nonetheless.

Will shrugs. "I don't know. I had Georgiana on the phone earlier, ordering me to lie down and rest."

"And did you?"

He shrugs again. "I lay down, but then all I could think about was schedules and maps and speeches, so I got up again."

"It's more restful working."

"Something like that."

An awkward silence hangs in the air. Charlie wants to ask about what happens. He also knows how terse Will has been since getting back from New York. The news of shattered glasses and scathing remarks has filtered through. "You've given everyone a few days of for Christmas?" he asks, picking up a cup of coffee, before eye the scum and putting it back.

"Yeah," says Will, lowering himself into a seat opposite. "Josh warned me to not be a total moron with them."

"You're going to break too?"

Will laughs a laugh totally devoid of any humour. "Oh, no."

Charlie smiles slightly. "Yeah."

"You should though."

Charlie raises an eyebrow. "Really? And when would we have time for every other freaking little..." He pauses, and breathes heavily. "Is it just me, or is this suddenly less enjoyable?"

"It's not you."

Silence hangs again.

"I miss her."

* * *

**END OF PART I**

**Wow. I wasn't sure that we'd get here. Well done all. Now, don't get your pants in a bunch. This is a milestone, not a subtle way to tell you that I'm going on hiatus. With any luck, the next one will be up in a few days. That is, unless, I think of some hilarious one shot intermission for you. We shall see. **

**Thank you again for all the lovely reviews. I seriously appreciate them. **


	19. Part II: The more that you read

**PART II**

**The more that you read, the more things you will know**

Josh finally reaches his front door, and the leans, forehead first, again the cool paintwork. He has been gone for three days. Every muscle aches from not sleeping well. He has developed a minor fear of flying. All these things have combined to make him now, excruciatingly exhausted.

"Josh?"

Donna opens the front door, and is nearly flattened by her husband, staggering through it. Somehow he regains his composure.

"Hey," he says, brushing down his over coat.

"Hey yourself." Donna regards him with an expression somewhere between amusement and irritation. "What were you doing out there?"

"Oh, you know, thinking."

She raises an eyebrow. "And when have you ever wasted time thinking?"

"I think," he says defensively. "I think. I'm a thoughtful man."

She reaches up a hand to his face, which he leans into. "Yes," she says, and smiles. "Sure you are."

He sighs, and pulls her into his arms. "I missed you," he says, muffled by her hair.

"We missed you too."

He sighs, content to just stand there, holding her, but finally steps back. "So," he says, shrugging off his coat, kicking his bag into the corner, "anything new?"

"Not much," she says, resolutely tidying up as he creates a wake of mess. "Oh," she remembers, "there's a message for you. I was bathing Claudie and wasn't fast enough, but I think it was Will for you anyway, so I left it."

"Oh, OK." He trails through to his study, and jabs the answer machine. After the cursory cool, digital voice of the machine itself, the room is suddenly filled with yelling.

"_Josh? JOSH? Why is your phone off? Dammit, Josh, you could have told me. We were totally wrong footed. We looked like idiots. After everything you've sent me, you couldn't possibly have warned me about that? WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING? We're screwed. Totally screwed. And frankly, I blame you. And Sam? What's Sam doing there? Seriously, you could have warned us. I'm just so…" _A deep breath. A sigh. "_We're screwed now. If he doesn't win then I'll…well, I'm not promising anything. All I know is we're screwed."_ Another pause, then "_dammit" _before the line goes dead with a clunk.

Josh looks up to see Donna in the doorway.

"What did you do?"

He slumps into his seat, and runs his hands through his hair. "My job," he says weakly, and then closes his eyes.

* * *

**Five days earlier**

Will wakes up to the sound of his cell buzzing. He groans, almost falls off the couch, then manages to pick it up, snap it open and croak "Hello?" into it.

A pause. _"You have bed voice."_

It takes him a tired second before he remembers whose voice it is. "Oh hi."

"_Hi there. You're in bed."_

He sits up, and rubs a hand over his messy hair. "What makes you think that you can judge my surrounding furniture from my voice?"

"_You're not in bed?"_

"No."

"_But you were sleeping."_

He says nothing.

"_HA. Told you."_

"You're annoying."

"_It's what sisters are for. Also, to stop you from getting too big for your boots."_

He clears his throat, and begins to move round the room, opening the blinds. "Remind me to thank you for that some day."

"_Oh I will."_

"Is there a purpose to this phone call?"

A gasp. _"I need a purpose? To call my one and only brother? What a sad state of affairs we are…"_

"All right, shut up."

He can hear her smirking.

"_So," _she says, _"how deep in over your head are you?"_

"We're fine. Just about treading water."

"_Good continuation of the metaphor."_

"Thanks."

A pause. _"Will, I saw you on CNN this morning."_

"Oh, yeah?"

"_You looked dreadful."_

"Thanks."

"_Just don't work too hard, OK?"_

"Oh, OK, I'll just stop now, right?"

"_Shut up. I'm serious."_

He sighs, and slumps back into the couch. "I know, but so am I. I can't stop right now. We're too far in."

"_And way out of your depth."_

"Well. Maybe."

"_Look, I'm going to Rich and Jules for Christmas. I know you'll be beyond busy, but can you at least take some of the day off and swing by?"_

"I'll see."

"_Oh, well that bodes well."_

He smiles. "I'll try," he amends.

"_Good."_

A knock at Will's door is followed by Charles appearing.

"George, I've got to go. Charles is here."

"_Tell him Nadolig Llawen from me."_

"OK. Speak to you soon."

"_Bye."_

* * *

"Everything all right?" asks Charles as he sits down opposite Will.

"Fine. Just a reality check courtesy of one Georgiana Darcy."

Charles smiles slightly.

"She said to say Happy Christmas."

Charles nods, then pushes a piece of paper at Will across the coffee table, sighing heavily. "You remember the Literary Festival that we passed over? The one in New York?"

Will picks up the paper, fingering the edges. "You guys thought it would go against your image with the young people."

"Yeah," says Charles, slowly. "So, here's the thing. The President's going."

Will's face becomes slack. "What?"

"Yeah. It was released this morning in his week's schedule, that he's planning on going to the Literary Festival."

Will leans back and groans. "Typical. I should have pushed for it."

"We didn't know," says Charles, shrugging. "There was no way to know."

Will suddenly looks annoyed. "Oh, there was a way. But it wasn't up to us." He crumples up the paper which he has not read, and smashes it between his hands, before dropping back against the couch. "Well, I guess it's all right," he says slowly. "We can't really salvage this now, and it's not like anyone else was going."

Charles watches him for a second. "That's not entirely true."

Will opens an eye. "What?"

"It would appear," begins Charles, clearly concerned, "that Saul Zimmerman had accepted."

"What?"

Charles nods.

"How come you're getting this all first?"

"They thought you were asleep. Viv came to me."

Will resumes the smashing of the paper ball. "Zimmerman?" he says, shakily. "Bloody Zimmerman, and the President, together, at picturesque, intellectual events…" He continues muttering, the ball crunching against one palm, then the other.

"I'm sorry," says Charles. "This was my call, and I blew it."

"You didn't know," says Will, automatically. "I'm in charge of these things. I wanted to go. I should have pushed for it."

They both know that he's sincere, and yet neither can't say anything else. After what feels like hours, Charles sighs. "So," he says. "What can we do about it?"

Will stares at him blankly for a second, then, "nothing. We can't go. We'd lose all credibility running after the President like that. It would get leaked. We can't be seen hovering in the background of photos like the kid who no one likes. We've got to be front and centre with something."

"What?"

Will stands up, and strides towards the door. "Anything, just as long as it isn't near them," he says, and flings open the door. "Jaime? Matt! I need details of any big Christmas events going on, this weekend, preferably west of Michigan, and I need it _now_. " He turns in the doorway. "We're going to fix this" he says, and then whirls out of the room.

* * *

"Hey, where are you?"

"_Somewhere above land, I'd hope. I think the pilot said we've got about a half hour until we land."_

"Good, OK, well Chris has everything you need."

A pause. "_Does it feel dishonest to you?"_

"Don't say that. I'm trying not to think about it. I say, thank God your sister lives in Milwaukee."

"_I say, I'm going to kill you for forcing me to spend a week with her."_

"This is what we need. This is all that's going to save us now."

"_You're talking like we've been struck down with deadly viruses and simultaneously held at gunpoint."_

"We might as well have been."

Charles laughs. _"OK." _He pauses. _"What's your plan?"_

"I need to be here," says Will. "If this is going to be a problem, I need to see it first hand."

"_OK. Keep me updated."_

"Yeah, OK. Me too"

"_OK..."_

* * *

Will sits at the back of the massive hall, his phone clamped to his ear, murmuring into it.

"…_so what's going on?" _asks Chris, clearly similarly busy at the other end.

"Oh, the President spoke for a while. Now there's a local children's choir. It's not important. What's he doing now?"

"_Serving dinners at a homeless shelter."_

"How did you swing that one?"

"_I phoned and asked if they wanted volunteers. We haven't told them who he is. He's plain clothes, wearing a button, but nothing else campaigning. We're going to leak a photo of it somehow."_

"Nothing too obvious. The less this looks like a set up…"

"_However we do it, it's a set up. No one would believe that any candidate was just doing it out the goodness of their own heart."_

"Yeah, well, do your best. It's good you did that first though."

"_That's what we thought. The less he's recognised, the less it looks fake."_

"OK. What's next?"

"_Tomorrow he's going hunting with Mitch."_

Will gives a low whistle, to the consternation of those sitting around him. "What did he say to that?"

"_We're drawing lots."_

"Ah, OK, well make it clear that it wasn't my idea that he went out with a gun and his brother-in-law."

"_But good, right?"_

"Yeah, it might be."

"_Then skiing the day after. Some time we have an open air nativity to fit in, and a children's shelter."_

"Good, OK. I want him talking as much as possible, all right? Meet and greets, coffee houses, I don't care, just get him talking about the issues."

"_OK. What else?"_

"That's it for the moment. Just as long as I don't see a single headline with him and some pun on Oshkosh." He sighs. "Keep me updated."

"_Yeah, OK."_

Will snaps his phone shut, and settles in the for the rest of _The Rhythm of Life_. At last, it ends. The young choir, clearly thrilled with themselves, scamper off stage. Passing them, as he walks on, a young man takes his place behind the podium.

"Well, thank you children. Let's give them another round of applause. Weren't they great?"

Will half heartedly joins in.

"So, that's the end of the main event, please stay and enjoy everything else we have to offer. After a quick break here, Governor Saul Zimmerman is going to speak to us. But for now, let's thank again everyone who was involved, especially, President Santos!"

The room breaks into an enthusiastic storm of applause. This one is at least warranted. Will cringes as off the side, he sees President Santos wave briefly, before turning and shaking hands with Zimmerman. "Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn…" he mutters, watching the cameras flash around them. "Chris had better get me a front cover," he continues muttering. If anyone cared to listen, they'd probably think he was crazy. Thankfully, most people are getting up, tired of sitting still for so long. The room is quickly emptying, leaving only a core of people who Will resignedly recognises as political writers, a few journalists he met whilst working at the White House, and noticeably, in the opposite corner, Sam Seaborn. Will raises a hand in greeting, and slowly gets up to walk over.

"Hey," he says.

"Hi," says Sam, standing up and shaking hands. "What are you doing here?"

Will grimaces, and Sam laughs.

"Oh," he says. "Checking the competition?"

"Something like that. It was a massive mistake not coming here so, you know, I wanted to see the damage first hand."

Sam laughs again. "You really _are_ like Josh." They sit down. "Have you heard him before?"

Will shakes his head. "No. I've heard _about_ him."

"From Josh?"

"He did mention him to me a while ago. He passed on your email to me as well."

Sam grins. "Good. Well Bingley _has _been looking great recently. You have a new writer?"

Will grimaces again, and says nothing for a minute, then, "we just lost her."

Sam looks at him, hard, and then raises his eyebrows, and turns back to the stage where the chairs for the children's choir have been moved, and teleprompters replaced. "Right," he says, quietly.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, until a scatter of applause from the front of the now slightly fuller room, begins. Onto the stage walks the man from before, and a much older man, tall and broad, although slightly bowed with age, a slightly surprised smile as the scattered applause grows, especially at the front.

"Ladies and gentlemen," says the MC, "Governor Saul Zimmerman."

He takes his place behind the podium, and waves a hand to cease the clapping. "All right, that's enough," he says genially. "I'm really not used to this kind of reception. That last place I went I got booed off stage."

A gentle laugh ripples through the audience.

"Well," he continues, "it is an absolute privilege to be here. I can't say that I ever imagined this day. I certainly didn't as a school boy, strugglin' through Shakespeare. And now here I stand before you all, and don't imagine that I'm going to lecture you on the bard himself. There are men and women much better qualified to teach you about that than me, something that no doubt my wife will die of shock to hear." He smiles, and settles at the podium. He looks relaxed, at home. "_All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrance; and one man in his time plays many parts…_" He smiles. "I'm not above quoting him though. See, this is something that I've been trying to put into words for weeks, and skimming my old copy of _As You Like It_, I find that William Shakespeare managed it over four hundred years ago. I've played many parts in my life. I had my entrance sixty-five years ago. I had some good scenes of stealing fish, of climbing trees, then I got the really romantic ones. You know, nothing Romeo and Juliet, but they were good. I've had some good scenes of work and discovery. I had my big romance which I am pleased to say has been a constant set piece for forty years. There have been sad scenes, and many to chronicle my stupidity, but that's how it is when your play is long. I've been the son, the brother, the annoying uncle, the lover, the friend, the husband, the father. I've been the politician, but not before I was the baker and the secretary and the student. I've also just become the grandfather, a new and exciting part to play, I'm telling you. These parts I've played, they've been amazing. I think we can all look back on the parts that have made us up, and see that they were crucial for who I am, and you are, today. But see, here's where I'm starting to get annoyed."

The audience is listening in rapt attention. It's like the most electrifying bedtime story, and Will is stuck somewhere between deep, gut wrenching admiration, and deep, gut wrenching terror. Zimmerman takes a sip of water, and seems to think for a second.

"You see, these parts have been decisions. No matter what you will say about star crossed lovers and my fate being written across my hands, I know that it was a series of big decisions that led to my being here. Decisions to go to that place, to meet that person, to ask that beautiful woman to marry me. I may not have control over every event in my life, but the parts that I have played, have been chosen and accepted. As a politician, there is no part of me which if you dusted it off and held it up to me, I would say I did not know how it came to be there. I believe that is what gives strength of character. The ability to look at your life and identify it and claim as your own. But you see, we all have areas which we might be able to trace and explain, but can't in any way say that it was a decision to have it. We might accept it, we might stand in it and walk by it, but I truly believe that if it was not a decision to make it part of yourself, then you cannot rally people around you solely based on that fact. Because you see, it might be an experience which you can share, it might be a heritage. But we see every day, someone with our experiences, someone from around my neighbourhood, someone who looks like me, and while those things might be the same, our hearts are not."

Will leans forward, breathless. It feels as if the whole room is holding its breath.

"So far this election, these campaigns, have almost entirely focussed on character debates, and I do not mean real character debates. If we were standing up there, talking about the things we have done, the decisions we have made, then maybe the American people could have half a shot of getting the right person for the job. But let's be honest here, pretty much the only thing that anyone has talked about so far is age, sex, and race."

Will's not the only one breathless. Sam is transfixed, as is pretty much everyone in the room. Zimmerman has them spellbound. He pauses for a second, and sighs, looking off, before shaking his head slightly.

"Look, I get it. There's something exciting about being able to identify with someone so powerful on such a basic level. To be able to say 'I'm a women- she knows how it is for me'. To say 'I'm black, and he's black, and we have the same issues'. Even to be able to look to the White House and say 'he's young. She's young. They get me. They haven't forgotten what it's like to be me'. I get this, all right? I'm not blind to it, and I certainly don't want to take away from that recognition, from that identification, because it is important. But here's the thing. I am so much more than a sixty five year old, white man. President Santos is much more than a fifty one year old, Hispanic man. I mean, Jesus Christ himself never stood there and said, 'well after all, I _am_ a thirty three year old Jewish man'. Of course he didn't, and of course we don't. And before I see a bunch of erroneous headlines tomorrow, I am in no way painting myself as the Messiah of the American people, so let's not do that, all right?"

A laugh circles the room, and Zimmerman smiles.

"I believe that the people of America are smarter than we have been giving them credit. They are smarter than blindly following their friends, they are smarter than blindly following their neighbours. I've always been a bit of an odd ball when it comes to voting. No doubt my children will tell you, I've always been an oddball, full stop." He grins. "But in all seriousness, I have not always been comfortable with the big movements to get everyone out voting. I believe that every vote is important. I believe that the idea that voting for the underdog is a vote wasted is one of the most ridiculous ideas that has ever been suggested. But I also believe that elections are won and lost on blind voting, on people who hear one fact, two facts, and they are sold. No matter if the things which actually matter to them are fulfilled, no matter if the problems facing them are going to be sorted out. They walk into the booth, and they pull the lever, and might as well have done it with their eyes shut. And right now? This election is going the way of forcing them to go in blind, because I'm telling you, the only facts that I can find out about some politicians is their name, their age, their sex and their race. Everything else seems to be less important. I'm telling you now. I will not let you go to the polls ignorant. I will not let you go in blind. I am saying right here, right now, this election, these people and this country deserve better for their President than vital statistics behind a desk. I am more than that, and you are more than that, and I am determined that this will be the most thorough, most open and honest, most intelligent election that his country has ever seen."

The people, as a room, rise to their feet, in deafening applause. Will and Sam find themselves looking at each other, blindly, before also rising and applauding. There is simply nothing else to do. Zimmerman waves a hand to them, and slowly the noise fades, and the people return to their seats.

"Well if we can find such enthusiasm and excitement about the election, then maybe there's a chance for greatness. You know, Emerson said '_trust men and they will be true to you; treat them greatly, and they will show themselves great'._" He sighs, looking overwhelmed, but elated, a light shining from his eyes. "We're here at a literary festival. I think it's only right to share just a few more great words with you." He fishes in his pocket, and brings out a small book. "I should know it by heart, by now," he says ruefully, "but the words are _so_ great, I didn't want to get them wrong, and forget any." He puts on reading glasses. "_On and on you will hike, and I know you'll hike far, and face up to your problems whatever they are. You'll get mixed up of course, as you already know. You'll get mixed up with many strange birds as you go. So be sure when you step. Step with care and great tact, and remember that Life's a great balancing act. Just never forget to be dexterous and deft. And never mix up your right foot with your left. Will you succeed? Yes you will indeed! (98 and 3/4 percent guaranteed.)"_

He takes his glasses off to laughter, and applause. "Yes," he says, "well Dr Seuss said something else. He said once that sometimes the questions are complicated, but the answers are simple. The questions we face today are I guess some of the most complicated that we've ever faced. But let me tell you. They will not be solved by silence and inaction. Jim Henson once said that it is so much easier to be negative and cynical, and predict doom for the world than it is to try and figure out how to make things better. The simple answer? We have a responsibility to do the latter."

Applause starts to build in the room, but Zimmerman is clearly nearly done. He carries on over the growing cacophony.

"Before the time comes for my exit, I want to be able to say that I tried to figure out how to make this country better, and this world better. We need a new birth of freedom from this oppressive ignorance and inaction. And I'm telling you. With that rebirth, the government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall _not_ perish from the earth."

His parting words are barely audible above the roar of the audience. The first few thunderous applauses earlier had brought in more people, eager to hear what was happening. Now, a nearly full room, stands to its feet, leaving only a few, Will included, resting his dizzy head on his hands.

"Thank you, God bless you," Saul Zimmerman practically yells over the crowd, "and God bless America."

If it was possible, the audience noise level increases. As does Will's nausea.

"Hell," he mutters into his palms. "We're totally screwed."

* * *

**With grateful thanks to Dr. Seuss, Jim Henson, Emerson and Shakespeare, each of you reading and reviewing, and LJ, each brilliant in your own way.**


	20. Maybe Christmas, perhaps

**Maybe Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more!**

Will finally reaches the front door, and stands in front of it for a moment, hardly daring to breathe. This will not be fun. It is not what he wants to do in the slightest. And yet? He has to. He just has to. Slowly, he reaches out a hand, and knocks on the icy paint work of the door. Behind the rippled, distorted glass of the door, a shape appears and the door opens. He winces.

"Hi."

Josh raises an eyebrow.

"Look, I'm an idiot. A massive, assish idiot, and I'm sorry."

A smile plays around Josh's mouth.

"I was angry and exhausted and frankly, I'm still exhausted, but I should never have phoned you like that."

"Especially at home."

Will winces again. "Yeah, especially at home. I'm sorry."

Josh raises an eyebrow again.

"I brought wine."

"Well in that case..." Josh opens the door to him, and smiles. "Come on in."

Will sighs with relief and walks in behind Josh.

"Donna! Will's here!"

She appears in the kitchen doorway, a ladle in hand. "Oh, good. Hey Will."

He smiles, sheepishly. "Hi. Look, Donna, I'm sorry about the phone message."

She shrugs. "It's fine. You were yelling at Josh, not me. You managed not to swear too badly in front of my daughter. It's all fine with me."

He smiles again, relieved.

"And you're staying for dinner?"

"Oh, I..."

"Course he is. He's brought wine. We're celebrating anyway, aren't we, and it's not like you can drink..."

Josh trails off as Donna's expression hardens. "Oh."

Will turns back to Donna. "Really?"

She shrugs again, with a murderous glare at her husband. "Yeah, we only found out yesterday." She grins. "Maybe _you_ can keep this quieter?"

Josh grimaces. "Wouldn't be hard." He grins at Donna, and kisses her cheek, before waltzing off through the kitchen and inciting a squeal from the playroom beyond. Immediately, the soft thumping of footsie-pyjamaed feet speeds through and skids to a halt behind Donna's legs. Claudia Lyman, the very image of her father, gives Will a shy smile, looking up through her thick, dark, wonky fringe, little hands holding on to the back of Donna's jeans before she whips round to see Josh, sneaking up on her, squeals and runs into his open arms. Donna watches them wryly.

"They're one in the same," she says, shaking her head.

"Good luck."

She laughs and pats a hand on Will's arm. "You're a nice boy," she says. "You want to take them away from me?"

"Not desperately," Will laughs. "I've already got a little sister who's more trouble than she's worth."

"Oh, right. How's she doing?"

Will leans against the kitchen counter as Donna turns back to the stove, stirring a pot of stew. "Really good. She's studying for an MA in Dance Performance now."

"Wow. Well give her our love. I'd love to see her dance sometime."

Will smiles. "Good luck getting Josh there."

"Oh him." She shrugs. "He can stay home and look after Claudie."

She turns back to see Josh now tossing his little girl over his shoulder to her loud acclaim, excited shrieks echoing around the house. "Josh, don't wind her up too much. She's supposed to be going to bed."

"NO BED NO BED NO BED."

Josh has the grace to look a little apologetic. "Well then," he says. "I think I'm putting her to bed tonight."

"I think you are too."

He grimaces, offers his now upside-down daughter to Donna for a good-night kiss, and then hoists her back over his shoulder and walks off upstairs, Claudie giggling all the way.

* * *

Fr: ebethbnet

To: george at jrusselonline

Subject: Hi

Sorry that I didn't reply for a while. It all got a little crazy here. Well, anyway, I quit my job. So I'm back in Pulaski. But here's the thing. I like you George. You're a nice guy. But right now I can't be doing with relationships and all that. It's just a bit much. So could we just be friends?

Well, I hope you're all right. And think about getting back with Mary King. She looks really nice in People.

So, that's it. Have a Merry Christmas.

Love,

Lizzie

* * *

"I'm horrible."

"No, you're not."

"He broke up with someone else for me."

"That was his own fault."

Lizzie props her chin on her hand, where before her face was buried in her quilt. "She was pretty. And famous. _And_ rich."

"Who are you talking about?" asks Lydia, stopping on her way past, leaning in the doorway.

"Oh, no one," covers Jane.

"No, come on. She's pretty and famous and rich? Someone you know?"

Lizzie groans. "No Lyds. Just a friend of a friend."

"Which friend?"

"Lydia!"

Lydia shrugs at Jane. "What? I'm showing a healthy interest in your boring lives. Or not so boring lives, as it turns out."

Lizzie groans again, face down on her bed. "George."

Lydia's eyes widen and she slides into the bedroom. "George?" she asks. "Sexy George the journalist, George?"

"Yes."

"So you were talking about Mary King?"

"Yes! How did you know that?"

Lydia drops onto the window seat, a sardonic expression gracing her face. "Well gosh Lizzie. I'll guess that _People_ has a circulation of a few more than _you._"

Lizzie returns to her face-down-in-the-quilt position. "Well great."

Silence falls for a second, only to be broken by Lydia again. "So what were you saying about Mary King?"

"Lydia!"

She turns a scowling face to Jane. "Look. I'm just interested. So sue me."

"OK," mumbles Lizzie.

"For once, you two appear to be the most interesting people around, all right? You've met famous people, even if they are _politicians,_" she says laced with derision, eyes rolling. "You've been photographed by the paparazzi. You've been in the papers. I was just interested."

Jane nods slowly. "Well we _were_ going to be on Regis and Kelly, but you know, with the holidays coming up…"

Lizzie laughs into her quilt, still face down into its insanely cheery Christmas pattern.

"Fine," says Lydia, getting up. "If you just want to keep your little 'Jane and Lizzie exclusive club' that's fine. I don't give a damn."

"Just like Rhett," mumbles Lizzie again, propping her head up, pushing her hair out of her face.

Jane catches Lydia's hand as she prepares to moodily stomp back out of the room. "Lyddie, it's nothing secret…is it?" she adds, asking Lizzie.

"No," says Lizzie, resignedly. "It's just that George emailed me, saying that he'd split up with Mary King because he wanted to date me, and I emailed him back to say that I wasn't interested in a relationship now, but I'd like to remain friends. That's all."

Lydia frowns. "_He _split up, with _her_?"

"Yeah."

Lydia raises her eyebrows. "That's not what I heard."

"Who from?"

Lydia adopts an expression which would suitably be accompanied with a 'duh!'. "Everyone. Everywhere."

Lizzie ignores this for a second. "What had you heard Lyds?" she asks, tiredly.

"Well." Lydia retakes her place on the window seat and leans in, conspiratorially. "I heard that her dad disapproved and made it known. Allegedly, they were going to go to Aruba or somewhere for Christmas, and then he stepped in and now? Well, they're both single."

Jane glances at Lizzie for support, only to see her frowning, looking far off. "Lyddie, how do you know this?"

"Oh places, people. You know."

"No."

Lydia shrugs. "It's not like it was that big of a surprise. Her father is famously controlling. He's been really careful of her PR and everything."

"Famously? Who is he?"

Lydia rolls her eyes. "Walt Elliot. Seriously? You didn't know?"

Jane shrugs. "Not all of us keep a close eye on teen celebrities."

Lizzie sits up, and shakes her hair out of her eyes. "So, wait, Mary King's father, Walt Elliot, split them up, from their planned Christmas together in, where, Aruba? And then he whisked her away, far from George?"

"Yeah, pretty much. That's what I heard, anyway."

"Wait, why are their surnames different?" asks Jane.

Lydia shrugs. "A stage name I think. There was already a Mary Elliot in the actors guild, or something."

Jane turns back to look at Lizzie, who is sitting still, her chin resting on her knees, deep in thought.

"Well," says Lydia. "My work here is done." She gets up and walks out of the room, soon followed by a shriek down the hall of "I WAS NAKED! YOU COULDN'T KNOCK?" and a slow dissolve into giggles.

"Lizzie?" says Jane, slowly. "Are you…?"

"Why did I trust him? Why did I ever trust him? I knew early on that he was somewhat economical with the truth. And I knew that Will thought that the truth was more important than breathing. Why did I trust George and not Will?"

"Don't beat yourself up about it."

"I feel like an idiot," she breathes, distressed.

"Look," says Jane, as she climbs onto the bed opposite Lizzie, facing her. "Maybe you could have realised. Maybe if you had sat down and really thought about it, you could have had a clue. But Lizzie, don't forget, George may have lied, but he was really nice to you, really flattering, throughout."

"Oh great, so I'm a hopeless female, blinded by nice words."

"No," says Jane slowly, "but anyone would not want to trust someone who was, let's be honest, offensive. Will was grumpy and uncommunicative, mean occasionally, and stubborn as hell."

Lizzie looks up, bewildered. "I have never heard a list of such negative words leave your mouth like that. Except talking about me," she adds, and smiles.

"He was," says Jane, ignoring her. "And there is no shame in believing the guy who is nice to you, and being suspicious of the one who is mean, all right?"

Lizzie wrinkles her nose in disgust. "I was still an idiot."

"Well, maybe," concedes Jane, scooting up to next to her little sister. "But you're my idiot."

* * *

"MERRY CHRISTMAS!"

Mary groans and rolls over. Lizzie cracks an eye, and fixes it not on her younger cousin, but on her oldest sister, standing in the doorway in her Christmas pyjama bottoms and a thick hoody. The steadiness of the said gaze is however impeded by said younger cousin tugging on her arm.

"Lizzie?" she whispers, somewhat conspiratorially. Strange, really, given that she burst in, yelling. Whispering would have worked then. Not so much now.

"Mmgg?" she mumbles into her pillow.

"It's Christmas morning Lizzie." A pause. "Aren't you excited?" Another pause. "Don't you want to find out if Santa has been?"

Jane clears her throat at this, and Lizzie opens the other eye. "Right," she says slowly. "Santa." She makes a long arm and tugs Mary's bedding clean off both Mary and the lilo on which she is sleeping. "Mary, we need to go and see if Santa has been."

Mary curls tighter into the foetal position, grabbing feebly for her bedding. "Just one more minute…" she mutters, curling tighter still.

"Nope," says Jane in somewhat clarion tones. "We've been up for a while. It's time you were too."

Mary groans, and feels around blindly (pre contact lenses) for her college hoody which was laid across the bottom of the bed as an extra blanket, but is now catapulted across the room, along with her bedding. She scowls at Lizzie, and then turns to find her glasses instead. Lizzie meanwhile slowly sits up, and pulls on slipper socks and a long, rather old, cardigan.

"Wait up," she says, as Clara turns to skip along the hall. "Come here a second."

Clara skips back into the room, and stands in front of her cousin. "Yes?" she asks, all innocence.

Lizzie looks at her carefully for a second, and then shakes her head slowly. "Boy, you _are _good. It used to take Lydia much longer than that…" She grins and pulls her into a hug. "Merry Christmas to you…pest," she adds.

Clara grins, and scampers away down the hall, singing _Deck the halls,_ shrilly.

Jane slumps for a minute in the doorway.

"What time was it?" Mary asks, finally having located her hoody and slippers.

"The first wake up call? Five."

The sharp intake of breath is warranted.

"I bought an hour with a promise of watching _The Game Plan_."

"A small price to pay."

Lizzie grins. "No price at all. I'd have watched it, bribery or no."

"Good then, because it was you I was bartering."

Jane grins, and then walks off down the hall, following her exuberant cousin to find that Santa left quite the stash of loot, under the tree.

* * *

In the age old Bennet tradition, stockings are ripped through before breakfast, Christmas bread and coffee is devoured with much devotion, especially from the male contingent, then the whole family piles into cars for church. Church over, and everyone safely home, lunch is prepared in potentially the least restful or festive atmosphere, imaginable. Uncle Phil and Rex manfully take on the requirement of 'entertaining the children'. This has morphed over the years, from reading quiet Christmas stories to Jane and Lizzie, to guarding the presents from Kit and Lydia, to guarding the kitchen from Phil's boys Aksel, Jason and Seb, and now, it requires a family wide re-enactment of _Barbie in the Nutcracker_, just for Clara. It started last year, and unfortunately for them, the boys were too nice, and far too successful as the rats, the Nutcracker, and generally every other part that was required of them. So now they prance around the living room, spinning their little sister around in the air, her Nutcracker Barbie dress flying out around her. Rex and Phil are occasionally pulled in as furniture, generally unmoving characters or the Christmas tree, largely due to their expressions when asked to participate, and Phil's handy excuse of looking after his youngest daughter who can barely sit up. Agathe sleeps through it all, snuffling against her father's flannel shirt as he sits quietly beside the fire, watching his four other children disport themselves around the room.

"Where's Lydia?" asks Lizzie in a brief pause whilst Clara and Jane search for Clara's missing ballet shoe that was kicked off at a rather exuberant moment.

Mary is taking pictures throughout, beautiful mementos to add to the collection, and yet another good reason not to join in. She looks up from her camera. "I think she left a while ago," she says. "Something about returning text messages and emails."

Kit drops onto the couch, exhausted after playing all of the courtiers, simultaneously. "It's bull," she mutters, a keen eye for the whereabouts of her young cousin. "It's just that she didn't get to play _Clara_."

Lizzie snorts with laughter, gets up, and wanders into the kitchen to check on dinner.

"Anything I can do?" she asks warily from the doorway.

"We're almost done," says Francesca, her concentration not breaking for a second as she whips the gravy into shape.

"The table laid too?"

"Aliz is doing it."

Lizzie nods and quietly walks through to the dining room. It has been transformed from a slightly festive room (cards stood on the dresser, holly rammed behind pictures) to a table which would rival that of Saint Nicholas' in it's festive cheer. The red placemats outline the table, set with cutlery and shining glasses. The sideboard is now clear, and ready to receive the mountains of food which will be laid out, and down the middle of the table, candles are intertwined with greenery, hung with tiny ornaments and interspersed with figurines and ribbons.

"Holy…" mutters Lizzie, stock still in the door way. "How long has this taken you?"

Aliz Gardiner turns round from putting the finishing touches to a pot of bare twigs in the corner, ornamented with fairy lights and baubles. "Oh, you know," she says, shrugging. "Not long." Her long greying blonde hair is piled on top of her head, glasses perched on top of that as she frowns with an artist's concentration to finish tying the last bauble. "There," she says, "done." She steps back to admire her handiwork, next to Lizzie, and slips an arm round her niece. "You like?"

Lizzie gazes at her aunt for a second, slack jawed. "I am, yet again, without words."

She grins. "That's a good sign, I have learned over the years."

"Hey!"

She grins again. "Come on. Let's go and see what the little elfen have got up to."

"Hopefully not felling the tree."

Aliz turns and laughs. "Hopefully" she agrees, and following the sound of wailing, walks into the living room.

The marathon of Christmas dinner over, Rex and Phil take Clara and Seb with them out to walk the dogs in the frosty fields, whilst Aliz goes to lie down with Aggie for a while, Fran falls asleep in front of the fire, and all of the rest of the children (save for Lydia who has mysteriously disappeared again) do the washing up. As the last pans are dried, Aggie wakes up, and the other party return, the family congregates around the tree and pass out presents. The sky begins to darken, the room bustles with people squashed into too small couches, and too little floor space, and a rare and surprising peace settles on the room, no doubt only to last for a short while, but for now, glorious.

* * *

"He would have come by now."

Juliet shrugs. "He's working so hard. I'll bet you anything he worked all day today."

"So what, he could still arrive? Come on Jules."

At her husband's raised voice, Juliet frowns a little, and gently pushes the living room door to, letting them talk, in the kitchen, in peace. "Don't be like that. And if he does come, don't be so mean."

Rich shakes his head slowly, and paces around the small kitchen, coming to rest in front of the remains of the Christmas trifle. He picks up a spoon, and straightens up the spoon shaped scoops in the cream and custard. After a few minutes of silence as Rich moodily picks at the desert, he finally sighs and throws down the spoon. "Fine," he says. "I'll be nice. But he should apologise to George. She has been waiting for him all day."

"You noticed that too?"

"How she's hovered by the window? Yeah, couldn't miss it."

"Yeah well…" Jules sighs and takes a breath. "Let's go and make the most of what's left of the day, no matter if he turns up or not." She frowns at her husband. "All right?"

He frowns. "Fine" he says, sighs, takes a consolatory last spoonful of trifle, then takes her hand and walks back into the living room.

Sam, beginning to feel the effects of a long, exciting day, is rubbing a toy bunny's ear between his fingers whilst his grandmother reads to him, this time, _How the Grinch Stole Christmas_. One thumb creeps into his mouth, but his eyes remain wide saucers, thrilled to know if the Whos will get their Christmas after all. Bella is curled up in Georgiana's lap, fast asleep, whilst her twin sits wide awake in the midst of a wave of wrapping paper, splashing fat little hands into the crinkly, crunchy paper with glee. As Rich and Juliet pause in the kitchen doorway to smile at the scene before them, a car pulls up outside. Georgiana whips around, her face transformed in hopeful anticipation. Rich is prepared for disappointment, so much in fact that when, just as Harriet finishes reading _The Grinch_ to Sam and the doorbell chimes, he is surprised to a level where he forgets to go and answer the door. Sam, transfixed by the end of the story, the already exciting day, and probably quite a lot of chocolate, leaps off the couch and sprints to the door.

"Can I open it? Can I? Please, can I?"

Rich slowly levers himself off the couch, and strides through to the hall. "All right," he says, "but ask who it is first."

"Who is it?" calls Sam, his mouth smooshed against the crack between the door and the frame.

"Santa," calls a quiet, distinct, and very tired sounding voice. "I forgot some presents."

Sam frowns in disbelief. "But you sound like Uncle Will." He takes a step back and peers through the obscured glass. "And you look like Uncle Will."

"OK, you got me. But I do have presents that he forgot!"

Sam squeals, then turns, bobbing up and down on his tip toes. "Now can I open it?"

Rich is now sitting on the stairs, watching the scene with tired amusement. "All right. Go on."

With the difficulty it takes for a four year old to heave open a heavy door, Sam finally gets it open, not long before hurling himself into his uncle's waiting arms.

"Hi!" he says, exuberantly.

"Hi yourself," says Will, and he hugs Sam, before putting him down again.

"What do you say, Sam?" calls Juliet from the living room.

Sam rolls his eyes, clasps his hands behind his back, and says with an angelic expression, "Merry Christmas and a happy New Year."

"And to you," he says, ruffling Sam's dark curly hair.

Sam grins, then spins round on the shiny wooden floor and sprints back into the living room.

"Hey," says Will, putting down his massive backpack, and offering a half hearted smile at Rich.

"Hey yourself." Rich takes a deep breath. "Merry Christmas."

"Happy Christmas."

Rich stands up slowly, and frowns. "You should have been here earlier."

"I know."

"Well…OK then."

They walk back into the living room together, and Will slumps onto the couch, next to his sister.

"Hello," she says, softly, all for the sake of the sleeping child in her lap.

"Hi," says Will, who leans over, and kisses her cheek. "Sorry I'm so late."

"Yeah," says Rich, blustering until Jules' steely glare meets his gaze. "Um…so why were you so late?" he asks, somewhat chastened by his wife.

Will sighs, and spreads out his hands wide in a look of mingled resignation and embarrassment. "Work," he says, shortly. "A whole…bunch of work." His carefully amended sentence causes Georgiana to smile.

"It's all right," she says.

"Really?"

"Yeah, really…?" Rich is cut off by a carefully hurled pillow. Jules grins back at him.

"Really," says Georgiana. "I mean," she adds, "as long as you brought a…bunch, was it, of presents."

Sam leaps up from where he momentarily had forgotten the impending presents, so intrigued was he by Lucy's game of smack the wrapping paper. "YEAH," he shouts, and runs and skids his way to Will's knees. "What did you bring Uncle Will? What have you got? Where are the…"

Jules gives her son a warning look. "Samuel," she says, "we don't badger our guests for presents."

His lower lip juts out. "But he's not a guest," he murmurs. "He's Uncle Will."

Jules' eyebrows disappear into her fringe.

"No, it's all right," cuts in Will, hastily. "I'm unforgivably late, and it _was_ the reason he let me in. Here, Sam, have a rummage in there."

He indicates his backpack, and with glee, Sam dives for it, regardless that it is almost his height, tossing wash bags and socks out with delighted abandon, in his search for gifts.

"Here!" he crows, as his hands close around and wrench out, a distinctly bottle shaped gift.

"Whoa," calls Will, and leaps up. "That one's for Daddy," he says, swiftly takes it out of Sam's hands, and passes it to Rich, with a wry look. "Happy Christmas," he says, with a smile.

Sam watches his father with narrowed eyes, before turning back to the bag. "This one?" he asks, pulling out another gift.

"Sam honey, look on the label," says Jules. "Does that name start with an S? S for Sam?"

He screws up his face. "No," he says slowly.

"No," agrees Jules. "It's a G for George, isn't it."

He nods his head, and then lethargically walks it over to Georgiana.

His interest is waning. He clearly thinks that it is all a hoax.

"You know what, Sam," says Will, seeing trouble brewing, "I think there's one here that might have your name on it." He rummages further, practically shoves his head in the bag, but then, with a triumphant "HA" he pulls out a big box. "Here," he says. "Happy Christmas."

Sam's face transforms, and, opposed to his earlier method, he slowly prises off the paper, piece by Christmassy piece, to finally reveal a Playmobil castle, complete with knights, horses, swords and flags, catapults, a drawbridge and a trapdoor. He draws in an excited breath. "Look," he whispers, to no one in particular.

"Oh Will," says Jules slowly, eyeing the new gift. "It's too much."

Will grins and shrugs.

"Rich? Come on. Remonstrate him."

Rich is too distracted by the fancy new toy on the floor before him to say anything. Jules rolls her eyes at her husband.

"Really Will, it _is _too much, no matter what Rich will tell you when he snaps out of his toy-enduced trance."

Will laughs. "Seriously, it's not. I'm a dreadful uncle, or, you know, whatever I am. I'm never here. I miss birthdays and holidays and everything. It's only fair I make up for it now."

"But Will…"

He smiles again. "Look, blame George. She sent me a whole bunch of links online, and told me to pick one."

Georgiana leans forward, careful not to jostle Bella. "I didn't send you _that_ one," she says, eyes wide. "I sent you the fold out one."

He shrugs. "It was small. This one has a trap door."

"Oh Will…"

He grins. "Happy Christmas." And that is all there is to say.

* * *

The empty living room is stark contrast to the few hours before. Everyone in bed, save Will and Rich, the house has settled to a comfortable silence, broken only by the popping of the log in the fire. Rich stretches out. "Well I guess I'll be going to…"

Will's last few minutes of silence end abruptly as he interrupts his cousin. "Am I turning into my father?"

"Uh…what?" Rich pauses, hands still clasped and drawn above his head. "Are you what?"

Will sighs, looks at his hands, and then looks back up at Rich. "Am I turning into Dad?"

Rich slumps into his seat for a second, then nods, stands up and strides purposefully over to the liquor cabinet. "Times like these," he mutters, getting out two glasses.

"I'm serious," says Will, leaning forward.

"I know. That's why I'm getting whiskey."

"Rich…"

He walks back over, hands a glass to his cousin, then retakes his chair by the fire. "Sip."

"Rich, I'm serious…"

"Sip."

Will gives his cousin the evil eye, grimaces, then sips the liquid. He frowns. "This isn't whiskey."

Rich shrugs. "It was the first bottle I found."

Will takes another sip. "I think it's Meade."

"Thrilling."

Will takes another sip. "Definitely Meade."

Rich watches him in silence for a second, then, "have you had long enough?"

Will raises an eyebrow over the rim of his glass. "Long enough for what?"

"Long enough to realise what a ridiculous question it was that you just asked."

Slowly, Will smiles. "Ah," he says, then takes another sip. He sighs. "It wasn't that ridiculous," he reasons, twisting the glass to catch the multicoloured fairy lights. "It feels like I'm getting more like him every day."

Rich grins. "I'll say. Buying that awesome castle was something Uncle David would have done."

"I didn't mean that."

"Then what?" Rich leans forward.

"The…the distance. Burying myself in work. Never coming up for air. Leaving George on her own for you to look after. I mean, look at today! All she wanted was a day, and what do I give her? Three hours? Maybe four?"

Rich watches his cousin, silently.

"It's not fair," mutters Will. "I won't do that to her again."

"Don't you think," says Rich, his voice breaking the heavy quiet of the room, "that maybe, the fact that you're sitting here screwing yourself up about it means that you are, by definition, not like your father?"

"I don't know," murmurs Will. "It's not enough to just know it."

Rich sighs and rolls his eyes. "Of course it isn't. But I know you, Will."

"Oh good," he mutters.

"I _mean,_" continues Rich, "that you'll do something about it. Now you've realised, you'll do something, won't you?"

Will turns the Meade back and forth in his hand. "I _want_ to," he says.

"Good…"

"But I can't. I can't just drop everything and always be available. Always come to Sunday lunch."

"That's not what anyone's asking."

Will sighs, and runs a hand through his hair. "Why did no one tell me that being an adult is terrible?"

Rich laughs. "Don't know. Maybe because short of running away to Neverland, it's all pretty inevitable."

Will smiles slowly. "I'm serious," he says, shaking his head. "It's like leading a school party through an avalanche, in the fog."

"Um…what?"

He smiles a little more. "You know. You've suddenly got responsibilities, but you're battling through seemingly impossible things, with no end in sight or any idea where you're going."

Rich grimaces. "Wow," he says, dryly. "You're a regular little Tiny Tim. All that cheer…"

Will leans back in his chair, and looks at the fire for a moment. "When does it end?" he asks. "When does it stop feeling like this?"

"When you've had five Tequila slammers?"

Will groans. "So, in conclusion, I am doomed to become my father."

Rich sighs heavily. "No. Shut up about that, all right? You are not your father, just as Anne is not her mother, thank God. I mean, you do appear to be pretty out of your depth, right? You've just got to keep swimming, and, you know, not drown."

"Comforting."

Rich grins, finishes his Meade, and drops the empty glass onto the mantelpiece. "OK," he says. "Seeing as this is pretty much the only day of the year that I can legitimately be this sappy, I'm going to take my chance. William Darcy. We are all here for you. We are not going anywhere. If you miss stuff with my kids, tough. They won't love you any less, although I think you have successfully bought Sam's love, so, you know, congratulations." He grins. "Win this election. Don't win it. We don't care as long as you're still around. All right?"

Will observes him silently for a moment. He smiles slowly. "And what if I'm a mere shadow of the man I was before?"

Rich shrugs. "Jules makes awesome brownies. They're pretty restorative."

Will laughs as he sips his Meade, causing him to inhale it, then sit coughing for a few minutes. "Great," he says, croakily.

"You're welcome dude," says Rich, and he grins. "So. I need to go to bed. Sam had us up at five this morning."

"OK. Happy Christmas."

Rich pauses in the doorway, and grins again. "Happy Christmas," he says, and then turns to slowly climb the stairs, check on his three sleeping children, and then slip into bed himself, exhausted with the rollercoaster that is Christmas.

* * *

**You may think it's unseasonal, but there are, after all, only 151 sleeps to go. So. Happy Christmas to all my lovely readers and reviewers. God bless us, everyone, and all that.**

**Oh, and having read your comments, I've edited:**

**titans123: Thank you. And you don't need to apologise either. I'm grateful.**

**NYT: I've taken some of them out. Will, however, probably would 'Happy Christmas'. Or not. But I'm stubbornly leaving them in. Also, I'm thinking hiking backpack here. Although, I hear you- it would take up most of the space, if not all. What can I say? He's a devoted uncle with impressive luggage.**


	21. Conducting an avalanche In E flat

**Conducting an avalanche. In E flat**

Fr: williamdarcy at charlesbingley

To: richardfitzwilliam at dbd

Subject: I don't remember when I last slept

I'm not even kidding. I don't remember. This is getting really stupid. It's, what, a month since Christmas? I think that night on your pullout couch was the last time, maybe.

OK, so I slept a while ago, but it wasn't like a full nights sleep. How long can I physically go with out sleep? You with your weird love of Wikipedia should be able to figure this out, right?

Anyway, as per our agreement, I am clocking in a delightful message which I absolutely do not have time to write, but frankly, right now, if I hear one more sentence about nuclear fuel technologies and drilling through national parks for oil, I will drive to Yellowstone and throw myself into Old Yeller. Is that possible either? Find out.

So, I'm going out of my mind, I haven't slept well in ages, and I'm starting to get seriously concerned about Charles. He still won't hire any other speech writers, and it's getting like it was before. Except now the race has stepped up and tightened, and he is making much more speeches. He just has to get past July. Well, then November. And then…well, I'll fit in some time for him to go to Aruba or something.

So. Report over. I'm not dead, and I haven't quite turned into my father. Yet.

Love to the clan.

Will

* * *

Fr: richardfitzwilliam at dbd

To: williamdarcy at charlesbingley

Subject: Not exactly the comforting bulletin we were after

Well. Good? I think. I'm glad to hear that you're not _dead_ but maybe we could aim a little higher here? I don't know. Just a thought.

The world wide web community seems to agree that if you were a rat, you'd be dead in about a month with no sleep. We'll see just how rodentish you are any day now, right? Allegedly fatal insomnia leads to death after several months, although apparently no one has ever died from lack of sleep. Happy thought. Especially in contrast to the fact that lack of sleep leads to a doubled risk of cardiovascular disease, weight gain, hypertension, Type 2 diabetes, depression, alcoholism and bipolar disorder. Also, cognitive performance declines with six or few hours of sleep. So, in short, you may not die, but you'll have a massive crappy pile of problems, so go to sleep, right now. That, or look up sleep on Wikipedia and laugh at the picture of the sleeping kitten, and the person who wrote an article on sleep and headed it with a picture of a kitten. Bang goes his scientific credibility. Also, while you're there, look up Thumbelina the horse. It's the funniest horse-pig-dog you'll ever see. Although it may give you creepy horse-pig-dog dreams. So maybe not.

As for Old Yeller. Will, your cognitive reasoning is already slipping. As you may remember, Old Yeller is the dog in the film, wait for it, _Old Yeller_. You know. The horrifying one. Old _Faithful_ is the geyser. I can only find accounts of _near_ fatal geyser related accidents, so, you know, it might just be a slow and painful way to die. Not as slow and painful as being gnawed to death after throwing yourself on Old Yeller, the _dog_ but still.

Well, got to go. While it may not appear to be the case, I actually have work to do. I know. Crazy. Glad to hear you're not dead. Keep up the good work. Not dying I mean.

Rich

* * *

Fr: williamdarcy at charlesbingley

To: richardfitzwilliam at dbd

Subject: Old Yeller

I can't get that dog, the film, or the song out of my head. It's going to make me go mad. Just so you know. So, until the next report, in the little spare time I have, I will be burning effigies of you.

Will

* * *

Fr: jfb at zimmerman

To: ebethbnet

Subject: I AM HORRIBLE

I loved the guy. I think I really did. SO WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING WORKING FOR HIS OPPONENT?

Seriously. If you can't convince me of a good reason why I'm working here, I may have to leave.

Jane xx

P.S. This is my new email, if you hadn't guessed.

* * *

Fr: ebethbnet

To: jfb at zimmerman

Subject: You're not. Don't get your pants in a bunch.

Girl, you were head hunted. You are good at your job. You love your job. You love politics. And, let's be honest here, after that speech in December, we ALL love Saul Zimmerman. I know you loved Charlie, and you respect him as a politician, but you know, we're all grown ups here. You left, he emailed once, and now we're moving on. So it's good.

In other news, back at the old homestead, Lydia's gone off again on a 'road trip'. Emphasis on the quotation marks. If this isn't a boy that she's off with then I'll eat my shoe. Probably. And if Mom or Dad find out that it _isn't_ a road trip, to Nashville by the way (not exactly a road trip by Britney standards, but then what is?), then they'll either kill her, or make her marry the dude. Either way, he ends up screwed. In situations like this, you end up feeling like maybe the guy should meet her parents early, just so he knows _just how mad_ they are going to be. I mean, it's not like they're laid back hippy types.

So, I'll keep you updated.

Love you, and miss you more than you could know,

Lizzie

xxxx

* * *

Fr: jfb at zimmerman

To: ebethbnet

Subject: OK. Chilled. A bit.

Lydia's an idiot. Let's only hope that she remains without ambition. You know, not trying to get further than Nashville. Although they really don't suspect her of, you know…? Ignorance really must be bliss.

Well, things here are settling down, probably because I'm just about succeeding at suppressing that gnawing sense of guilt and shame. So, snaps for me. Saul Zimmerman is amazing. He's here all the time, working and chatting but, you know, at the end of the day, he goes back to his wife, and phones his grandchildren and wishes them happy birthday, and…well, I only realise now how frantic it was on the Bingley campaign. I loved it, but I don't know. I kind of feel more at home here. Is that wrong? Oh man, I _am _horrible.

Well, I keep on talking you up. And they're super interested. I chatted to Sam Seaborn the other day and mention you. He's really interested Liz. Seriously. So think about it, all right? They'd totally take you on.

You know the best thing about being here? I only really have just realised how far in over my head I was before. I was talking about stuff I had no idea about. I mean, it's not like now I'm taking several steps back and having someone draw me a multi-coloured wall chart of 'The World of Politics' or something. It's just, I think I've found my feet here. Somewhere that I can genuinely work in. Not just flounder.

So, still feeling guilty, but quietly happy, if that's allowed.

Love you, and love to the family. Even Lyds.

Jane xxx

* * *

Fr: ebethbnet

To: jfb at zimmerman

Subject: Thanks but no thanks

I can't believe you're talking me up to Sam Seaborn. That is Sam Seaborn, aka, the shoe-in for Democratic vote, right? Sam Seaborn whom Charlie worships. That one? Just checking. Anyway, I'll sound totally hypocritical, but while I think it was fair, right, and grownup of you to take that job, if I did it I think Will may just turn up on my door with a machete. I mean, it's not like I ever really want to see him again, and we certainly didn't part on an exactly amorous note, but I would like to think that maybe, one day, if I ever bumped into him, he wouldn't push me under a garbage truck. Well, this makes no sense, and I'm certainly not just doing it for that reason, but you know. It's complicated, and times like this I need the open sky. Not a plastic coffin of a hotel room.

So. Lyds is back. Smirking. All the time. Kit is starting to lose patience with her. I distinctly heard her say just the other day "Geez, no I don't want to know about that." And there may have been something anatomically impossible but I won't offend your delicate ears/eyes with that. And as for Mary. She has taken to completely ignoring Lydia. Something about being totally disgusted at her and her ways of debauchery. It's times like this that really bring out her Victorian schoolmarm side. Anyway, the house of Bennet is therefore, currently, a house of doom. You may feel crushing guilt, but at least it's far, far away from here. Lucky. Just like Britney.

A thought occurred to me, and since you're the only person I told about this, I wanted to consult with you. Lydia has bumped into George a few times, right? And with what I know of him (re: Will's story of George's unfaithful ways and crushing of familial ties etc PLUS his being a lying skeeze bag) do you think I should tell her? You know, warn her off from his lying, crushing skeezy ways…you know, as I write this, I already think not. She'd just run right after him, wouldn't she? And she knows that he's a lying skeeze bag. You remember Christmas, right? So, in short, there's little point. We've just got to hope that a) she's too busy tied up (probably literally…ew) with some guy, and b) even if she did throw herself at him, George is too busy doing it with Mary King (sorry…well, not really…) or at least sees some difference between an fabulous, hot, rich actress, ten years his junior, and a man-crazed twenty-one year old, newly legally fuelled on cheap red wine.

This was all a lot simpler when we were ten.

Love you, and I'm glad it's getting better, despite crushing, gnawing guilt.

Lizzie

xxxx

* * *

Fr: jfb at zimmerman

To: ebethbnet

Subject: I wish I was ten. And still had a good reason to carry Sparkle around.

Seriously. It has occurred to me that, lucky talisman or no, (my Rainbow Skydancer My Little Pony- you know, the one you mock) I may appear to be a total lame ass if anyone discovered it about my luggage. I need to hide her well amongst my socks or something.

News round:

I got my hair cut. It's still longish. Still blonde. Just a bit swishier.

I'm so glad it's starting to warm up at last as you cannot imagine. I nearly died of frostbite a few weeks ago.

I met the British Ambassador a few days ago. He's mad, came on to me, then presented me with Marmite. Word to the wise, don't eat it. It's weird.

Oh, I also met Sam Seaborn's wife, Ainsley, the other day. She was great.

Well, that's about it. I think I agree on the Lydia front. There's not much anyone can tell her, really.

Hope you're all right. Has Dad managed to get any further convincing Bill to sell him the extra land? Or, actually, is he still being stubborn and refusing to write? Typical.

Love you. Even though you mock Sparkle.

J xxx

* * *

Fr: ebethbnet

To: jfb at zimmerman

Subject: Your hero

I like how you forgot the fact that you ADORED Ainsley Hayes. You wanted to be her. You've kept your hair all long and swishy just to look like her. You even considered taking law further, just to be White House legal counsel. You don't fool me Bennet.

I agree about Lydia. Mainly because you were agreeing with me, but we all like a bit of happy resolution, right? Your news was fascinating. Really. All facts should be shared in bullet point form. Therefore, I shall finish this email in such a fashion:

I too am glad the weather is warming up. The horses were getting frisky.

Dad wrote to Bill last week after months of stubbornly refusing. I dread to think how Mom convinced him.

Bill has not replied. Keeping him hanging no doubt.

That, or he can't read or write.

It's possible.

I got my hair cut too. Not that you'd notice. It's still one massive tangled hair ball.

If I stay here much longer, I will go spare. Mary, Kit and Lydia combined with Mom make me want to break things, open skies be damned.

Miss you.

L

xxx

* * *

Fr: joshlyman at whitehouse

To: williamdarcy at charlesbingley

Subject: The end is in sight

So, it's all winding up to the big finale of finales, and I thought I'd email and wish you luck. You had it unbelievably easy those first few months, but now I guess it's really hotting up. Keep focussed, and don't look back at the others coming up behind you. It isn't about how far you are ahead of them. It's about getting there first, all right? No matter what panicking instincts will tell you as you freak out and people tell you that you aren't good enough (and believe me, unless your campaign goes freakishly, devilishly smoothly then they will tell you that), you stick to it, and you'll be fine.

I mean, look at me. Just about eight years ago, I was panicking like there's no tomorrow. And now? The President of the United States along with his wife and two children came to my daughter's second birthday party. It's only when Donna's Mom pulls me to one side and is all 'Josh, that's the President' that I realise how weird this all is. So don't worry when you freak out. We all do it.

Also, don't OD on caffeine. It will not get you through alone. You can have a stab at it, but as Donna is so fond of saying (freakishly like both our Moms) nothing is as valuable as a good nights sleep.

So. See you soon maybe?

Josh

* * *

Fr: williamdarcy at charlesbingley

To: joshlyman at whitehouse

Subject: The end is hidden from sight

Thanks for the words of wisdom. Right now, however, I'm not sure that the end is in sight. And it's all very well saying to not look back at those coming up behind us, because I think we both know, Zimmerman has in the last four months been gaining ground every day. It's one thing to not change tactics just because we might not win as a landslide. It's quite another when the potential for winning is slipping further away. It sounds incredibly pessimistic but it's the truth. It's going to take a miracle for us to win now, and it's certainly not helping that while we don't have a speechwriter (largely my fault, although he won't even look at anyone I send his way), Zimmerman has Sam. They're combining his youthful idealism with Zimmerman's every man, old school wisdom. And ours are going down hill. There's no justice that right now, the last thing that I can do is either a) put him in some sort of rehab for a month, or b) send him to Aruba. Well, there is justice, but it sucks.

So thanks for the words of wisdom, but frankly, we're going to do whatever we can to just keep going.

Will

* * *

To: williamdarcy at charlesbingley

Fr: ebethbnet

Subject: re: Please don't delete this without reading it first.

Hi.

I never replied, and I thought that you at least deserved to know that I got your email, that I read it, and I believe you.

I'm not sure what else I can say right now, but I thought you should know. Good luck on the campaign. I'm keeping a close eye on it.

Lizzie

* * *

**Thank you all, again. **


	22. You two just can't keep away

**As a reward for reaching the 100 review mark (sometimes I thought this day would never come), here is the next chapter, a day early.**

* * *

**You two just can't keep away from each other**

Will rubs tired eyes, scratchy with a day without rest, stretches, then sips his cold coffee. He stares at the offending mug for a second, then pushes it away, and returns back to the figures which have been sent to his email account, pages and pages of polling data, scrolling across the screen. Suddenly the phone buzzes its way along the table, flirting dangerously with diving off the edge. He snatches it up, flips it open, sighs, then says, "Yeah?"

"Were you asleep?"

He sighs. "No George, I wasn't."

"Why the hell weren't you?"

He looks at his watch, winces, then slowly calculates. "It's pretty early for you to be calling."

"Will, it's seven here. Early for me, I'll grant you, but it's three there! THREE!"

"I realised," he says, looking blearily again at the watch face. "Why were you phoning at three in the morning?"

"Took him long enough," mutters his sister, then she sighs. "Because," she says "I wanted to see if you were awake, and then chastise you for not being asleep."

"And if I had been asleep?"

"I was pretty certain."

He rubs his eyes, stands up slowly, drains the coffee mug into the bathroom sink, then walks downstairs.

"You still there?" Georgiana asks crunchily, clearly through a piece of toast.

"Yeah," he says. "Just making coffee."

"Will!" she says, exasperated. "You shouldn't making coffee. Make a camomile tea, or hot milk or something, and then go to bed."

"Yeah maybe."

Neither talks for a few minutes, but Will can feel George's eyes narrowing. Finally she says, "you just made a coffee didn't you."

He shrugs, useless down the phone. "I'm not going to bed right now."

"It's three in the morning! When _are_ you going to bed?"

He shrugs again. "Sometime soon? I will. I really will. I just had to get this done."

"Hm," she says, clearly unimpressed. "Fine. But you had better."

"I will," he says softly. "Look, George, I've got to go, all right?"

"Fine," she says again, "but you'd better not have chosen this moment to start lying."

Will smiles. "Yeah, OK."

"OK," she replies. "Love you dude."

He smiles again. "Love you too. Bye."

* * *

_A week later_

"No, it freaking won't do!"

I wince, get up from the edge of my hotel bed, then get to the door, just in time to see Charles' door slam, and Viv's back retreating down the corridor, shoulders low, feet stumbling. I jog after her.

"Are you all right?"

She draws a hand over her face, and looks up, slightly nervous. I guess I haven't exactly been Uncle Cuddly to these guys over these last months, but I'm not a monster. Exactly.

"Yeah," she says, and shrugs. "It's hard on all of us, I know. It's just getting so much harder, you know?"

Heck, do I ever. "Yeah," I say. "We've all got mammoth work loads."

She smiles slightly as we get to the elevators. "You more than anyone."

"I don't know about that. The Senator is taking on quite a massive amount."

She nods slowly. "It's unnecessary, right? I mean, he could have hired any number of people by now."

"I guess," I say, "but speeches were his thing, and there are very few people who write as well as he does."

"Yeah," she says, and nods slowly. "I guess," she repeats, then reaches out and presses the down arrow for the elevator.

I sigh. "Well, chin up," I say, cheesily enough to make even me nauseous. "The end is in sight."

She smiles. We both know that it's bull. The end is in sight, true. We're just not sure what that end will be right now. Damn it.

"OK," she says as the doors ding open. "Well, see you later."

"All right then."

Her resilient smile suddenly drops, milliseconds before the doors close, and I see the real Viv. The one who right now, feels just like me. Feels like dropping, like falling asleep. Like going home. And I realise that I'm going to have to do something, whether Charles pulls himself together or not.

* * *

I've always hated public speaking. It's the main reason that I'm not running. I don't have the magnetic personality. I'm the one who says the stupid thing, and makes half the secretarial staff walk out. I'm the one who unintentionally alienates the entire financial team. I'm the one who would probably end up being deported, not made President. So, it is with trepidation that I gather the staff, sans Charles, in the conference room, and stand at the head of the table. They crowd in, perched on window sills, leaning against the door (rather unhelpfully as the last few people are trying to get in), whispering amongst themselves, shooting me nervous looks. They really _do_ think I'm a monster. Well, it's too late now to amend that. Now, all we have time for is some motivation, however saccharine and hideous.

"Guys," I call and clap my hands a few times. It's entirely unnecessary. I appear to have fostered such a terrible reputation amongst my staff that they all immediately shut up. "Oh good," I say, and have a go at smiling. It feels like all my facial muscles are cracking with misuse. "Well," I say, "I had an email from Josh Lyman, the Chief of Staff for President Santos, I'm sure you all know, and he said in it that the end was in sight, so I thought now would be the perfect time for a whole staff meeting."

Chris, leaning his head on one hand, elbow on the table, raises the other hand wearily. "Where's the Senator?" he asks. Damn it. I should never have let him become my second in command. He got cocky. Why couldn't he also fear me?

"Uh," I say. A convincing beginning. "I thought this should be for the staff that work together. The team, if you will." The team if you will? I'm considering shooting myself after this ordeal.

"OK," he says, wearily.

Oh. Good. Well, moving on. "Yes," I begin, "well as I said, the end is in sight. I mean, let's be honest here. We don't know what will happen. Just as before we didn't want to be too cocky about the whole thing, now that it's looking a lot tougher, I think we should maybe all sit down, take a breath, and realise that maybe it's not looking so bad."

A room full of raised, cynical eyebrows meets my speech.

"Look, here's the thing. We have all been working our asses off these last months. Don't think I don't know that. But you know it's not enough to be industrious. As Thoreau said, so are the ants! What are we industrious about?"

Silence hangs for a second before they start shooting nervous glances at each other, clearly asking, 'has he finally cracked?'

"This is bigger," I continue, taking pity. "We're not just here because we want to win. We're here because winning means that important things will change. We're here because we believe in the changes we could implement. So, let's remember that, in these last weeks of work we have ahead of us."

Matt raises a hand.

"Yes?"

"What if we win?"

What? "I'm sorry?"

Matt shrugs. "What if we win? Then we don't have these last few weeks. We've got, like, another eight months."

Damn. "That's true," I say, trying to sound considered and measured. I'm pretty sure that I'm failing on both counts. "Well, things will change if we win. It's not us on our own. It's us with the full party backing, so it's not like we'll be stretched so thin."

"And will the Senator actually hire speech writers?"

I'm not sure who it was that called that out.

"That's not for me to say. I would hope so…"

"Course he won't," calls out someone else, and a murmur of discontent circles the room. I've got to do something or we may have some kind of mutiny.

"OK," I say. "How do you guys really feel like this is going?"

"Badly," drawls Caroline, unfairly really seeing as she hasn't been around all that much recently.

Chris winces. "Pretty bad, Will. The Senator is just going to burn himself out at this rate."

"Is this how you all feel?"

A murmur circulates the room again.

"OK," I say. "I'm doing what I can, and I know you are too, but right now, the last thing we need to do is pile more on his desk. From now on, there are no direct remarks about anything save important ones, or the actual speeches, all right? The bare minimum of meetings including the Senator, the bare minimum of interviews, photo opportunities…pretty much everything. We'll throw ourselves into press releases, leaking old footage, old memos, OK?"

Caroline raises one manicured finger. "Um, William, this sounds like _more_ work, not less."

"Yes," I say. "I realise. But let's be realistic. We're working not to get ourselves to the White House, but to get the Senator there, all right? We're working to get _his _issues out there, _his _beliefs. While it's not particularly comforting for us, we are all expendable."

A somewhat louder murmur goes round the room. I'm not sure, but I may have just lost them.

"Well," I say. "I think that's enough for one day. Keep up the good work, and we'll all get there."

It's a good thing I wasn't expecting much of a response. There is a half hearted applause, led by Chris, rather sardonically for my tastes, then they all slope out of the room, leaving it incredibly big, and incredibly empty.

Caroline pauses in the doorway, and bats her eyelashes. "Is there anything I can do, for you," she says, pouting slightly.

"Just carry on with your good work. Oh, and I know you all became good friends, but try and keep his sister and brother-in-law away right now, all right? The less distractions…"

She looks a little disappointed. Well if she was hoping for some other kind of help, probably the stress relieving, bedroom-based kind, then she will be sorely disappointed. For all time. "Fine," she says. "You know, we're totally screwed right?" Then she flashes her perfect smile at me, and walks out of the door.

"Hell, don't I know it," I mutter to myself, then stand up, and walk back to my office, a headache building.

* * *

My twenty-eighth birthday arrives with an almighty thunder storm. I know this because I, along with Jane and Charley, am sitting on the porch when the grandfather clock in the hall is drowned out by the thunder.

"Wow," breathes Charley, looking like a little kid, all except the massive rock on her third finger. "I love a good thunder storm."

"Me too," chirps Jane, and she kicks off her shoes, and curls up on the swing seat, our old and reasonably smelly cat (who is deaf, happily) sleeping with impressive abandon across her lap.

As a matter of fact, I despise thunder storms. The build up to it, with the air all crackly and the horses acting crazy makes me skittish, and apt to break things. Then when it happens, I just can't calm down. Each flash of lightning, each roll of thunder, makes me leap up like a startled cat. I curl further behind the old cushions I was already holding (for warmth, more than anything else) and decide that Charley with her glasses, or Jane carrying a cell phone _and_ pager are both more likely to be struck by lightning than me, so I'm safeish. For the moment. At least until they're both taken out.

"So how's the campaign going?" Charley asks Jane. The thunder crashes, and I instantly loose the thread of the conversation.

"Yeah?" Charley's saying. "And the people are all right?"

"They're great" says Jane. "It's a real privilege working there."

"And you've met anyone?"

Another crash.

"How come? You're not exactly a troll."

How did I miss another entire line of conversation? It's like I genuinely black out during thunder storms. I'd better be sure to never drive during one.

"I'm just not quite ready. Not after…" Jane fades out, looks down, and distractedly strokes Jelly's ears.

Charley shoots me a look of surprise and why-didn't-you-tell-me-this which changes after a second to incredulity. "You're not _still_ scared of thunder storms?"

"Um…yeah."

Jane grins. "You're a grown up."

"Shut up. You carry a My Little Pony."

She grimaces. "For luck."

"Yeah, OK."

Charley looks between us, bemused. "Wait," she says. "You are scared of thunder, and you carry a toy with you."

"Good luck charm" says Jane between gritted teeth.

"Riiiight."

"You're not one to talk," I tell Charley. "You still wet the bed."

She looks at me with an expression of revulsion and confusion. "No I don't."

"Yeah, I know. It was a good try though."

"Oh, I know," says Jane. "She's watched every Disney animation, ever."

She shrugs. "So? They're good films."

"Yeah they are. I like Robin Hood the best."

Jane shakes her head slowly at me. Oh right. Sisterly bonds and all that.

"I mean…" I amend, "they're lame. Lame, lame, lame."

"Thanks Liz. Smooth."

I shrug.

"Maybe I should never have scored you a free holiday after all."

What now?

"Yeah" continues Jane. "I went to see Uncle Phil and Aunt Al a few weeks ago, and they were telling me how they had planned this big old holiday around the UK this summer, taking Aksel, as a kind of, welcome to your last summer of being a kid, except now he got accepted for early admission."

"Yeah I know" I cut in. "It's really great, isn't it?"

"Lizzie, you're not listening. With early admission, they would have had to cut the holiday short by two weeks, and they were going to do it, until it turned out that his girlfriend, Amy, and her family were inviting him for a summer holiday with them which wouldn't overlap."

"Right?"

Jane turns, exasperated to Charley. "Do you want a go?" she asks.

"Sure." She turns to me. "Lizzie, you incredible retard, your aunt and uncle are taking you to the UK in the summer." She grins.

Oh. "Wait, are you sure?"

"They're going to phone in the next few days."

"But why me?"

Jane shrugs. "Their other lot were all going to camp, and they couldn't very well take one and not the others. I'm working, Mary's working, Kit or Lyds might have gone, but frankly, they want you. I think it's a birthday present."

Oh. Wow.

"The only minor down side," Jane continues, "is that it will probably include a visit to Will Darcy's house."

Wait. "What?"

"Yeah," she says. "Uncle Phil is, you know, a big fan of all things political, and he had heard that Will's family owned a really great house in Wales that was worth a look, so pretty much the whole holiday is based around that."

"Will Darcy?" I ask, somewhat stupidly.

Jane smiles. "I know, it's not ideal."

"Wait, why is this not ideal? Is there something going on here?" asks Charley.

"Oh, he told me he loved me, we fought, I may have told him to go to hell. I don't really remember."

"Seriously," mutters Charley. "You get engaged, you spend just a little time away from your friends, and then this happens."

"It was nothing," I say. "Just the result of long hours and weird temperaments."

She narrows her eyes. "Fine," she says, "but…wait, was this at Christmas?"

I wince. "Yes?"

"I WAS THERE?" she practically yells.

"Yes," placates Jane, albeit, not very well, "but let's keep our voices down. It is, after all, late."

Charley shifts to a hoarse whisper. "I was there?" she repeats. "And you didn't tell me?"

"You were busy," I say, "and I was confused."

She narrows her eyes again. "Not good enough," she says.

"I know, and I suck, but it happened, all right?"

"Fine."

An uneasy silence settles broken suddenly by another crash of thunder, at which I leap what feels like a foot into the air. "Geez" I mutter. "I hate thunder."

It seems that the last crash of thunder let loose the rain as it pelts down, the yard in an instant turning to one great sea of mud.

Jane sighs. "Let's go get some sleep" she says. "I've only got tomorrow and then I have to get back to the campaign."

We nod and stand up together. Charley rolls her eyes at me, then sighs, and pulls me in for a hug.

"Sorry," I mutter, muffled by her hair.

"It's all right," she replies, pinches my arm, then grins. "Happy Birthday."

And then, we go to bed.

* * *

"Lizzie, it's your aunt on the phone."

This has already gotten me once today. I answered chirpily, only to hear my Aunt Adelaide (middle-named after her, worst luck) croaking down the phone to me about how I wasn't going to stay youthful and exuberant for long. Yes. Apparently soon my 'dewy glow' will change, over night no doubt, to a 'sweaty sheen'. Her words. So. I answer cautiously. Not that I have any more aunts, but you can never be to careful.

"Lizzie, it's Aliz."

I breathe a sigh of relief. "Oh, good," I say. "Hi."

"Hello sweetheart. Happy birthday, from all of us."

At this, the other end of the phone erupts into song, as that side of the family is apt to do. Jane walks past whilst they're in full song, and mutters "act surprised" before she sneaks out the back door. Thanks. Thanks a lot.

They finish with great harmonies and sung bass drums. "So," says Aliz, mid laugh, "have you had a lovely day?"

"Oh, yes thank you," I say, trying to sound casual.

"Really? Are you all right? You don't sound yourself."

Rats. "No, no, I'm fine. Had a late night, last night."

"Right," she says. "That'll do it. Look, sweetheart, I'm phoning mainly to say that we haven't sent you a birthday present because we thought we'd give it to you in a few months."

"Really?" I say, carefully confused. "What is it?"

Silence.

"She told you didn't she."

Oh, no. "Uh…well…who?"

Aliz sighs heavily. "Your sister is dreadful at keeping secrets."

"Don't I know it," I mutter.

"So, you know?"

"Yes. Sorry."

She sighs again. "It's quite all right. Certainly not your fault. But you want to come?"

"Yeah!" I say, relieved that she isn't annoyed. Actually quite pleased for a change that someone realised what a fink Jane can be.

"Good," she says. "We've already emailed you all the details. It'll be me, Phil, Aggie and you for pretty much all of August, running around the UK."

"Sounds amazing Al."

I can hear her grinning. "It does doesn't it," she says. "I haven't been there for years, not since I was little, and your Uncle has never been."

"And Aggie?"

She laughs. "Oh, well's she's quite the jet setter. Been back and forth. Round the globe a few times."

"And we're going everywhere?"

"Pretty much. A week in England, mainly London, then up to Edinburgh, across to Dublin then the last week in Wales."

"And Will Darcy's house."

She sighs. "Yes. Your Uncle is very excited about that. He was looking up places to see, found it pretty much as a side note. They have a restricted number of people round each day, and only on certain days, and you know Phil. It made him want to go even more. And then he discovered it belonged to the Darcy family. Well, you can imagine."

I can. "Yes," I say. "You don't suppose…there's no chance of the family being there, is there?"

"No," she says. "Apparently that's why they're only open on certain days, so that it's closed when they are around."

"Oh," I say, relieved. "Good, well, I guess that'd be interesting."

"Good girl," says Aliz. "That's the spirit."

I smile. "OK," I say, "well I'll check out that email."

"Do," she says, "and have a very happy rest of your birthday."

"I will."

"Love to everyone."

"And to all of yours."

"Bye."

"Bye."

I hang up the phone, and take a deep breath. If we can go, then he won't be there. It would just be too weird to meet him there. But it's all right, because he won't be. It's fine.

I take another breath, then sigh, and walk off in search of birthday cake.

* * *

**Serious, _serious_ thanks for getting this far. You are all golden. **


	23. We can make it, we can make it…

**We can make it, we can make it…**

Fr: joshlyman at whitehouse

To: williamdarcy at charlesbingley

Subject: Brutal honesty

I'm going to be honest. Bingley is looking terrible. Don't get me wrong. I'm not talking about polling here, or public opinion. I'm talking about how his skin appears to be grey. And Will, if you don't get him looking a little more exuberant soon, I'm telling you, you are going to loose any advantage that having a young, hip candidate gave. Because I'm telling you: he looks old.

So, do what you have to do, but right now, is he even going to get through to the convention next week?

Well. Got to go. Wrangling with TV stations to televise even a little of the thing.

J

* * *

Fr: williamdarcy at charlesbingley

To: joshlyman at whitehouse

Subject: re: Brutal honesty

I know. We're trying to make him stop work, but frankly, what can I do? If this doesn't get any better, I'm calling in doctors. It's getting to the point that I don't care what the voters think. I just want to make sure that my friend is still alive. Seems a bit over the top, but you haven't seen him close up. I mean, I don't really remember when I last properly slept, but I'm not sure that he's even trying. I caught him the other day, when he was supposed to be asleep, and for once we'd managed to clear all speeches off his schedule, and he was up watching reruns of Zimmerman speeches. I could have smacked him across the face.

Well, let's not let that get out, all right?

See you next week. I'll be the one who looks like the undead.

Will

* * *

"WILL?"

I wince. This is getting to be quite the routine.

"Where's my computer?" bellows Charles, striding down the hall. "Oh, and my cell, my Blackberry, my pager?" His voice, if possible, raises several notches as he appears in my doorway. "What the hell have you done with them?"

Now is the time to be calm. Now is not the time to yell back. I bite down all the retorts that bubble up inside me. "I confiscated them," I say. "You need to sleep."

Charles practically growls, like some crazed wild animal. "I can't sleep," he spits at me. "I can't get a freaking moment of peace without people barging in, or speeches and people running round in my head. I might as well work, rather than lying there, getting more and more angry."

I frown. "Are you actually suffering from insomnia?"

He drops into the couch in the corner of my office, head in his hands. "No, Will," he mutters in a low tone. "I'm saying that the convention is days away, we have mountains of work to be doing, and the last thing I need to do is sleep."

"Have you seen yourself in the mirror recently?" I ask, pushing my work aside for a moment.

"What?"

"I'm serious. Go look at yourself in a mirror." I turn back to my work, and ignore him.

Slowly Charles stands up, watching me in disbelief. "You're serious? We're only leading by one or two points, Zimmerman is coming up, fast, and you want me to _sleep?_" he says.

I nod, not looking up. This will only work if I hold my nerve.

He sighs heavily, spins on his heel and walks out of the room. A few minutes later, he is back.

"OK," he says. "I look horrible."

"Like the undead."

He raises an eyebrow. "Not unlike yourself."

"Yes, but I am not the youthful and exuberant face of this campaign."

He regards me in silence for a second before slumping back into the couch. "Dammit," he mutters, and leans his head back against the wall. He looks back up. "We're going to loose."

I don't move.

"What, no superstitions? No spitting, no turning round?"

I shrug. "Right now, I agree."

He raises an eyebrow. "Rule one, Will. Never, _ever_ tell your candidate that you think he'll loose."

"Rule one, Charles. Honesty."

He smiles, ever so slightly. "OK," he says quietly. "So, what do we do?"

Thank God. "We draft in everyone who can write worth a damn. We have them write drafts for your speeches at this convention. We'll piece it together while you_ sleep._"

He laughs. "Funny," he says. "Now what are we really going to…" Clearly he sees my face, as he trails off. "You're serious?" he asks. "Oh, Will…this is a bad plan. What about interviews, meet and greets…?"

I shrug. "It's all we've got. You need rest. You stand up, the first night of the convention looking like that? They'll be prepping to pronounce you dead in a month. No one would choose you."

"Comforting," he mutters.

"Yeah, well. This is what we've got. You are going to look rested, young, fresh, and ready to take on whatever those meat-heads throw at us. I am bringing in a doctor, he will let you sleep, even if it means pumping you full of drugs."

"Will…" Charles groans.

"Yes. You will be so chock full of all kinds of vitamins that Superman himself would look up to you as a specimen of good health. All right?"

Charles lolls back, looking both relieved and resigned. "All right," he says. Slowly, he stands up. "Well," he says. "I'll be in my room…sleeping."

"Great."

He shakes his head slowly, then walks off down the corridor. Immediately that his door closes, I call Jaime, and the underground save-the-campaign plan springs into action. We'll be up for this next week, solid, but we've got a chance at pulling it back.

* * *

Whilst the hotel had before been busy, phones constantly ringing, people running up and down stairs with sheaves of papers, now suddenly, the place comes alive. It buzzes with work, twenty-four hours straight through. The only place of relative quiet is Charles' suite, only interrupted for a few hours a day when he is permitted to work, comes out for speeches, meet-and-greets. When he is back at the hotel, he is under strict rest orders.

Jaime stretches out tired arms above her head, then returns to typing up the illegible scrawl that has been dumped on her desk. Copy upon copy of speeches is made, previously undiscovered, budding speechwriters sprawled across conference tables, thrashing out plans, thumbing through hotel copies of the Bible, hastily bought Dictionaries of Quotations. And Will, who is surprisingly looking less and less like the undead, despite his waning hours of sleep, takes speech after speech, highlights sections, words, phrases, in yellow neon pen. And when people have dropped off for a few hours to get some rest, he stands by a window, blind to the scenes of people coming and going below, and realises what he's going to have to do. And he feels sick about it.

* * *

Fr: williamdarcy at charlesbingley

To: ebethbnet

Subject: A favor?

Dear Lizzie,

Thank you for replying. It would have been easier to leave it, but I'm grateful. I'm emailing however, praying on the hope that a) you're still keeping an eye on the campaign, b) that you don't hate me so much that you never want to help me, and c) since your sister has started working for Zimmerman, that you haven't also defected.

At present, we don't have a speechwriter, meaning that Charles has decided to take extra workloads on. Due to this, as you've no doubt seen, he has seriously overworked himself. Therefore, I've ordered him to rest before the convention which, miracle of miracles, he has agreed to. However, we still have convention speeches to write. I've got the whole staff, plus extra speech writers scribbling night and day, but I haven't dared take anything to him yet as even I can see that they're not right yet. Could you possibly, at all, look through them, give me some pointers as to what would work, that kind of thing?

I'd be grateful for any help you can give us right now.

With best wishes,

Will

* * *

"You did _what_?"

Will rubs a tired hand over his eyes. "Seriously, Caroline, it's fine."

"FINE?"

"Could you not yell?"

Caroline whirls away, and stalks back to her desk. "Will, you sent someone who no longer works here, doesn't particularly want to work here, and who could make a freaking packet out of selling her story to the press," she snarls, then affects a simper. "I'm a simple country girl who has a political secret to tell," she squeals in a tortured Tennessee accent.

"It's not like that."

"You said that she hated you!"

Will leans back in his chair. "Huh. So I did."

"Will!"

He sighs. "She won't say anything. The worst that'll happen is that she does nothing."

"No," says Caroline, all angles and hard edges, "that's the _best_."

"You sent someone who hates you, sensitive information about the campaign?"

Will looks up slowly, mentally wishing Louisa Bingley-Hurst away. "Yes," he says, slowly, "but it's not really like that, and Caroline knows it."

"Dude, that was a stupid mistake," says Mitch Hurst from where he is lounging in the corner.

"Thank you."

Caroline leans forward, for once ignoring her new friends. "So," she says. "What are you going to do about it?"

"Do about it?"

She gives him an incredibly stern look. "Yes," she says, coldly.

Will shrugs, stands up and fishes his Blackberry out of his pocket. "Oh," he says, glancing at it. "I'll go and…" He gestures out of the room, and the walks out.

Caroline leans back in her chair, and smiles at Louisa. "See?" she asks. "That's all he really wants. A woman who won't take no for an answer."

"Absolutely," says Louisa, smiling right back.

"Huh?" asks Mitch, and then turns back to Twitter.

* * *

Fr: ebethbnet

To: williamdarcy at charlesbingley

Subject: re: A favor?

Will,

Sorry it took so long to reply. I was out all day, but once back, I didn't stop. I know you with your ant-like work ethic might appreciate that.

And of course I knew about the Senator. You can recognise a Charles Bingley speech from a mile off. They're almost as beacon-like as a Seaborn.

Anyway, I took it a little further than you asked. I hope that's all right. I pieced them together. You had some good stuff here, in parts. Together it might be a cracker. No doubt you're confining the Senator to as little work as possible, but give this to him in time for him to add his own little Bingley polish to it. That's what he always liked to do.

I hope this works. Let me know if there's anything else I can do. I mean, I'll always be on side with Charles Bingley for America, despite the fact that Jane is now thriving with Zimmerman. And I don't hate you.

Best,

Lizzie

* * *

Charles is looking better than he has in months. It is midnight, I'll grant you, but it's an improvement that he said he'd be heading off to bed after this meeting. It's a little miracle that has happened over him. I just hope that it lasts. He finishes reading the speech, puts it down, and then looks at me keenly.

"So," he says. "Is she back?"

"Is who back?"

He taps the speech with his pen. "Lizzie, Will. This is Lizzie's."

I shrug. "In fact, it's everyone's."

"Will…" he says, warningly.

"Fine, she did piece it together, and smooth it out."

"She wrote it from scratch."

I lean forward, and take it off the table. "No, really," I say. "She pieced together what I sent her, brilliantly, I'll grant you. See, that was Matt's." I point at the page.

"What, the paragraph?"

"Well, more like those two words together, but they all pulled together."

He shakes his head at me slowly. "I can't believe she came back for you."

"What do you mean?"

He smiles a little. "I don't know what happened, and I'm not going to ask you, but she was clearly fuming."

I frown. "No, I meant, she did it for you. She wants to see you win."

"Really?" asks Charles, smiling even more cryptically. "You're sure it wasn't for you?"

"Why would it be for me?"

Charles shakes his head slowly, and picks up the speech again. "For a smart guy, you can be an incredible idiot sometimes," he mutters, before standing up. "I'll have another look at it now, and then rewrite tomorrow. All right?"

She came back for _me_? Well, not came back, but wrote for me? Why the hell would she…?

"WILL?"

"Oh, yeah, sure."

He smiles again. "Wow," he breathes. "This is going to be interesting." And with that, he goes off to his rooms.

* * *

**So I realise some of you thought that Lizzie was heading for Pemberley, and clearly, she hasn't yet, so sorry if you're disappointed, but first, we have a Democratic Convention to take by storm. Or not. We shall see.**

**Thanks and love and all that. You truly are all fab. Like the Thunderbirds.**


	24. …I don't think we can make it

**This is, admittedly, shorter than most chapters, but I refused to merge it with another. Since you've all been such utter stars, I'm whacking in an extra post here instead. If I remember tomorrow, I'll post again. It will be the end of Part II. Oh yes.**

**Of the quotes in this chapter, most are Jefferson, and the one that Josh reads is, unfortunately, a mystery to me. I knew it when I wrote this. Unfortunately, that was several months ago. So, thank you to Thomas Jefferson, and the mystery author, whoever you are. **

**Thank you all, yet again. **

* * *

…**I don't think we can make it**

"_So it turns out that it was a good thing you went after all."_

Josh slumps onto his hotel bed, his cell clamped to his ear, and sighs. "I guess it was good to be here when it all happened…but I still think I'd rather have been there."

"_I filmed the whole thing."_

"Was she good?"

"_Of course. You would have been proud of your little carrot."_

"Weren't there any red-headed children to play the carrot?"

"_There's Molly Baylor, but she was the Yam."_

Josh sighs, and lies back. "You still have the costume, right?"

"_She's all set to re-enact when you get home."_

"I never thought the day would come when I'd rather see a pre-school pageant about Vegetables than do my job."

"_Honestly honey? Neither did I. I'm proud of both of you."_

He smiles, despite the headache. "Well, I guess I'm going to be here a bit longer now."

"_Isn't it all kind of wrapped up?"_

"Yeah, but there'll be a whole media circus still going on."

"_OK," _she says quietly. _"Well I think that Claudie and I are still going to go and see my parents for the weekend."_

"I forgot all about that…"

"_It's fine," _she placates. _"You'll see them another time."_

"OK," he says slowly. "Well I guess I should go."

"_OK," _she repeats. _"Well sleep well, all right?"_

Josh smiles slightly. "You scared now?"

There's a pause, and then a very quiet, "_yes"._

He sighs. "I'll be careful," he says. "And I'll take all those vitamins that you packed for me."

She sniffs down the phone, and sighs. "_OK," _she says, and then. "_I love you."_

Josh takes a deep breath. "I love you too," he says. "You and the littlest carrot."

"_I'll call when we arrive at my parents."_

"OK. I'll see you soon."

"_OK. Bye."_

He says good bye, reluctantly, snaps his cell shut, and then lies flat on his bed, looking at the ceiling, and all he can think about is that quote on the back of the book on his nightstand at home. "This is more than I expected," he murmurs to himself, before making a long arm, and snapping off the light, still fully dressed.

* * *

_Earlier that day_

"I'm really not sure about that," says Will, holding open the elevator door for the last few people to enter. With little time to discuss anything, the Vice-President conversation is now, out of necessity, happening as they walk.

"What about Josh Lyman?" asks Matt. "You could swing it, couldn't you?"

Will raises an eyebrow. "I may be able to talk him round, but his wife would kill me. Literally."

Charles rolls his eyes. "I was serious Will. I think that Seaborn is the best."

"I just don't think that he brings anymore to the party than you do, you know? He's just you, with greater experience. We need someone to complete you."

Charles shrugs. "We need to send a message. Zimmerman is using him for speech writing, which isn't what _he _was aiming for when he was running, was it?"

"Well, no…" concedes Will, "but…"

"But then we will have snatched him out from Zimmerman, hold the natural candidate in our pocket as the Vice President. If people were going to vote for him then, then why not on my ticket?"

Will leans back against the walls of the elevator, just as it stops moving with the sickening weightless lurch, and the doors open. "I just think he's too much like you. All he brings to the party is potential votes. We're relying on the fact that because people wanted him then, they'll want him now. You know how unpredictable voters can be…"

They lead the group out of the elevator and off towards the bus. "I still think that we should try for him. He's writing good speeches with Zimmerman, but really, he's wasted. We could put him to good work."

Will sighs, and shrugs. "Well, I guess," he concedes reluctantly. "I guess we could try and poll about it."

Charles nods. "Well do it fast. I wanted to be able to announce him as soon as possible."

Will nods slowly in reply. "OK," he says.

They climb onto the bus, taking customary seats, organising themselves as best they can.

Charles looks across at Will. "It's all organised?"

"I've been there with the team since before dawn."

Charles nods, leans back in his seat, and closes his eyes. Everything that can be done for the moment, has been done. Without animation and alertness, his face drops, the old grey pallor seeps back in, and Will looks at him with concern. He doesn't look as good as Will would like. Nothing like as good. One hell of a lot better, but still not quite there. He fingers the copy he holds of Charles' speech. It's one of his best. Possibly _the _best. Thank God for Lizzie. Just for a second, in the sudden calm before the storm of the bus, he lets his thoughts wander back to Lizzie. He snatches them back seconds later. This will not do.

His Blackberry buzzes with a new message and he slowly scrolls through to find it.

* * *

Fr: joshlyman at whitehouse

To: williamdarcy at charlesbingley

Subject: Hi

Hi, again.

So, the President ordered me to come here. I was all for sending Otto, but apparently he wants me here the whole time until someone's chosen. I don't know. Claudie is acting in a pageant about all the Vegetables or something, and I'm missing it. I only hope that Donna remembers the lens cap on the camera.

Anyway, if you need anything, I'll be only half a massive stadium away, so let me know. Now got to go. Am meeting Sam for coffee.

See you around,

Josh

* * *

He sighs, and decides to leave replying for later. Right now he is barely keeping on top of things as it is. He turns, with great reluctance, to start an email to Joey Lucas all about polling, and before long, they arrive at the convention.

* * *

Charles' speech may be his best, but dammit if Zimmerman's isn't blowing him out of the water. Sitting back stage, Charles is looking like a dead man. And actually, more so than had he just been listening to a great speech. He's a fighter, so why isn't he fighting? Rather than making notes and tweaking his speech, he's sitting there, just listening. In fact, I'm not sure he's entirely listening. He's looking off into the distance, looking sick. No wait, he must be. Zimmerman just used a particularly great turn of phrase, the crowd went wild, and Charles winced. What the hell is going on? Zimmerman's speech is drawing to a close, and from what I can see, the crowd is on their feet. All of them. Dammit.

Charles stands up and sends me a particularly fake smile before walking to stand at the bottom of the stairs, waiting to be introduced. As I watch him walk, my cell buzzes. I flip it open and answer without looking at the called ID.

"Yeah."

"_Will? Is that you?"_

"Lizzie?"

"_Yeah, look, I'm watching the convention. You're there, right?"_

"Of course I'm here. I'm standing back stage."

"_Right, so you just heard Zimmerman?"_

"Yeah." I walk a little away from the stage, out of Charles' earshot. "It was good, damn that Sam Seaborn…"

"_That's just it," _she interrupts. _"That wasn't Sam's speech."_

"What do you mean?"

"_He didn't write it. It had nothing of his old turns of phrase, none of his style, nothing."_

"But he's on the campaign with Zimmerman. If he's not writing the speeches then what is he…" It feels as if someone has squeezed all the air out of my lungs, has wrung them, along with my stomach, empty and weightless. "Vice President? Zimmerman is naming him…? Oh, hell."

"_Yeah," _she says. _"I thought you should know."_

"OK," I say, and then, panicking, stride over to Charles, just as he is announced, Lizzie still on the other end of the line.

"Charles," I say, and he turns around. I put the phone back to my ear. "He already knows," I say, and Charles smiles slightly, and nods.

"_Is he OK?"_

Already a good few paces away, with a lot of cheering muffling the sound, I turn back to the phone. "_He_ was planning on Sam for VP."

"_That wouldn't have worked."_

"I think he was desperate."

"_But he's all right?"_

Above all the noise, the cheering, the talking back stage, the technicians running around sorting things out, over all that, a soft, crackly thump causes me to turn round, just in time to see Charles' speech scrunched up, and rolling to a stop.

"Uh, Lizzie? I've got to go."

"_That bad?"_

"Yeah," I breathe, snap the phone shut, and then stand, breathless, watching Charles from the bottom of the stairs.

* * *

He leans heavily on the podium, looking dazed for a second, before moistening his lips, and beginning.

"My ancestor, as you may know, Thomas Jefferson, had many things to say on many topics, and today I find that his truths are more than substantial for what I have to say." He pauses and sighs. "_He who permits himself to tell a lie once, finds it much easier to do it a second and third time, till at length it becomes habitual; he tells lies without attending to it, and truths without the world's believing him. This falsehood of tongue leads to that of the heart, and in time depraves all its good dispositions_." He pauses again, looking, if possible, greyer, and sicker than he did before. "The first watch-word of this campaign has been honesty, and yet standing here today, campaigning for your vote, I find a lie deep within me, which I didn't even know existed. Every difference of opinion is not a difference of principle, and yet we slander each other, others who have the same wishes as us, the same desires for this country. Maybe…" he pauses again, and looks out at the sea of faces, yet seemingly not seeing any of them, such is his expression. "Maybe we should be prepared to look to others for leadership. Maybe we should look to others for guidance, because alone, we are nothing."

A hesitant applause scatters around the stadium. Clearly, no one knows where he is going.

"_Sometimes it is said that man can not be trusted with the government of himself. Can he, then, be trusted with the government of others? Or have we found angels in the forms of kings to govern him? Let history answer this question_." He pauses again. "History has answered that question, and we are all flawed. How can any of us stand in front of you, and expect you to choose us, to let us lead you? Not one of us is an angel. It is beyond thought. Jefferson said that he advanced with obedience to the work, ready to retire from it whenever the people became sensible how much better choice it was in their power to make." He pauses yet again, and looks down at the empty podium as another, slightly stronger applause circles the stadium. "But here's the thing," he says, suddenly stronger. "I would like to believe that you are sensible of that _now_. I would like to believe that you see, as I have seen now, the truth of a better choice." He steps back from the podium a little, one hand to his mouth, looking dazed. He takes a deep, steadying breath, and almost lunges forward, keeping hold of the podium as he barely stands, more leans, against it. "The choice," he continues, in little more than a whisper, "that was not, as is not…me," with which statement, he collapses at the foot of the podium.


	25. Foolish consistency is the hobgoblin

**Thank you. Massively, seriously, thank you. You can't imagine how jazzed I am to get such lovely reviews. It is sustaining me as I wrestle with my next project. Now, as promised, the end of Part II:**

* * *

**Foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds**

I am not at all surprised when, five hours after it all happened, Jane calls, tearful.

"_Lizzie?" _she asks, _"they won't let me see him."_

"Charlie?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

"_They say I'm not family."_

"Sweetheart, you're not."

She takes long and shaky breaths. After a long pause, she all but whispers, "_I just want to see that he's all right."_

"I know." And I do. This is Jane all over again, and why am I not surprised that she is clearly, blindingly still not over him? Well, because it's Jane. "I guess you're just going to have to let him contact you."

"_But what if he…" _She trails off, no doubt horrified by her own thought. _"He should know how I feel."_

"Yeah," I say slowly, "but maybe now isn't the time."

"_What if it's the only time?"_

"Janey, I don't think he's dying. It's probably just nervous exhaustion, you know? They've all been worried about him for weeks, over working himself, not resting…it's probably just the accumulation of a punishing campaign."

She sighs and sniffs. _"Yeah," _she says slowly. _"But how did you know this? And why didn't you tell me?"_

I scuff through to the kitchen and begin making myself a cup of tea. This conversation is exhausting, and just a little irritating. If she cared this much, why did she leave in the first place? Or at least, not keep in contact?"

"Janey, you work for his opposition. Whether deliberately or otherwise, you might have leaked things which you had no place in knowing. I wasn't going to betray them, accidentally or otherwise."

"_But I would have?"_

"Jane!" I pour the water into my mug, and take out my aggression on the tea bag, before I realise that it has, in fact, split. "Damn," I mutter, and pour the leafy water down the sink.

"_I would have?" _she repeats, shriller.

"No, of course not, but it was fairer to everyone if you had nothing to tell. Your loyalties were already divided enough without me sharing gossip about Charlie, all right? I did it for you."

"_Really?" _she asks, just a little petulantly. It is on these occasions, and these occasions only, that Mom's DNA shines through. I consider dropping the phone into the kettle.

"Yes, of course."

Blissful silence settles from the other end. It is broken, seconds later. _"Are you still in contact with Will?"_

"Janey, don't even go there. He, of all people, does not need to be bothered now, all right?"

"_Yeah," _she says slowly. The crazed-Mom moment is clearly passing. _"Yeah, OK," _she says again. _"I guess I'll wait and find out with the rest of the world."_

"Good," I say, frankly relieved. "I'll let you know if I hear anything, but for now, you could just email him?"

She is silent for a second, and then, "_yeah. OK, I might."_

"Good," I say again.

"_Sorry Lizzie,"_ she says. _"That was…well…"_

"Ugly?"

"_Ugh…yeah. OK, well I'm going to go and slam my head in a door a few times."_

"Yeah, don't do that. You're far too pretty."

She laughs, and sighs. "_OK,_" she says. "_Thank you for not yelling at me_."

"Anytime," I say, and am relieved to hear the click of her hanging up. I finish making my cup of tea, debate with myself for fully five minutes, then pick up my cell and dial Jaime's number.

"_Hey!" _she says, sounding bizarrely pleased to hear me.

"Hi, Jaime, I'm sorry. This must be a terrible time to call."

She laughs slightly. _"Not really," _she says, with delightfully brutal honesty. _"I mean, Caroline's team is going spare, but the rest of us are just waiting really."_

"So no news yet?"

"_No more than is about to be released."_

"You wouldn't be an angel and…"

"_Exhaustion due to over work and lack of sleep."_

"Really? Nothing more sinister?"

"_They're testing him for pretty much everything, but the initial diagnosis is exhaustion."_

"And he should be all right?"

"_Allegedly. They're prescribing complete rest."_

"OK. That sounds all right."

"_It's pretty much the best that it could have been."_

"Yeah." I sigh. "Well I'm sorry you guys had to lose like that."

She laughs. _"Seriously," _she says. _"That will be the most talked about concession, ever."_

I find myself smiling, despite myself. "It was dramatic."

"_Though we're all wondering what Will will do when he corners the Senator over writing a concession speech when he wasn't supposed to be doing any work at all."_

"From the look of it, he wasn't reading. I think he improvised it."

Jaime lets out a long, low whistle. "_Well," _she says, _"whoever knew that he had Jefferson's entire life memorised?"_

I laugh. "I'm not surprised." I sigh. "Look, J, you're an angel, but I've got to go. Send my best to the Senator if you see him?"

"_Will do. Talk to you soon Liz."_

I hang up, and sag against the kitchen counter, exhausted. I can't imagine how Will's feeling right now. Probably my exhaustion but quadrupled. Several times over. I sip my tea, and think, just for a second, about Will. Then I stop. It's not healthy, after all.

* * *

Just when I'm merrily blasting my mind clean with Hannah Montana, concentrating on the endless exploits of Miley Stewart rather than everything else that is going on around me, Kit slumps onto the couch next to me, tired and slightly painty after a full day with the six year olds, and says, unceremoniously, "Lydia's going to Brighton Beach. Had you heard?"

"On her own?" I dread to think of Lydia on her own.

"No, with the Forsters."

"Jenny?"

"Yeah." She steals my coffee mug, and sips at it. "They're camping."

I snort. Really, I can't help it. "Lydia? Camping?"

Kit rolls her eyes. "Oh, can't you imagine it? Lydia, in the great out doors, with nothing but canvas and tent pegs between her and Jenny Forster's three older brothers."

OK. Now I feel ill. "Thanks for that," I say, and steal back my coffee. "Where are they camping? And who thought it was a good idea taking her to New York?"

Kit gives me a long and withering look. "New Brighton State Beach, Santa Cruz."

"Oh."

"Yeah, well it's not much better."

"No, it's not. I dread to think what she might do."

Kit looks pointedly silent.

"Is she planning something hideous?"

She shrugs. "I try to hear as little as possible nowadays."

"I hear you on that."

She grins. "Yeah, well, what can I do?"

"Nothing," I concede, "though…maybe I'll talk to Dad."

"Good luck with that," she mutters.

We settle into companionable silence, watching Hannah, until Kit, frowning in disbelief can take it no longer.

"What is this?" she explodes. "Superman for a new generation?"

"What do you…?"

"None of them can tell it's the same person? It's just different hair and fancier clothes. Everything else is the same! Are kids supposed to be this dumb?"

"Pretty much."

She sighs, and slumps against me. "It really was easier when we were six."

"Tell me about it," I say, and we fall back into companionable Disney channel watching.

* * *

There was a time when the study was my quiet, restful sanctum. A place for me to retire whilst the herd of crazy women which inhabits the rest of my house would absolutely and definitely keep out. Somehow, over the years, this hallowed respect of complete silence and seclusion has been shattered, no doubt by the purchase of one single computer, situated in said study, with which all five of my daughters became instantly obsessed. And yet today, for the first time in a long time, I was enjoying a quiet morning. Sol and Jem had the work covered. I had everything done I needed to. I was finally catching up with paper work and emails in blissful seclusion, and then, with a dangerous look of determination and concern, Lizzie walks in and drags the other chair up next to me. This will not end well. I can just feel it.

"Daddy," she begins, curling up in the chair. "Can I talk to you?"

I glance at her, and sigh. "Is there anything I could say to make you go away?"

"No."

"Then of course darlin'. What can I do for you?"

She bites her lip, and worries a thread on her shirt sleeve, before looking up. "Lydia can't go to Brighton Beach."

"Is she wanted in California?"

"Dad!" she says, annoyed already.

"I'm sorry," I concede. "Carry on."

She sighs. "It's just," she begins, "she's too young."

"To go away from home for the summer? She was going to camp aged ten."

"This is different."

"How?"

She pauses and rubs her forehead, clearly distressed. "I don't know," she admits, "but it is."

"Lizzie…" I begin, but she shakes her head.

"You're not worried about it? About as far from here as she could be? With the barest supervision? She can't be trusted not to do something truly stupid."

"Like what?"

She doesn't say anything.

"Lizzie, sweetheart, has she done anything to your detriment?"

"No," she says slowly, unsure. "Not as yet."

"Then why are you so determined?"

She curls tighter in her chair. "She's just…she's running wild and you don't seem to even be noticing, and she's such a bad judge of character. She's so desperate to get out of here, to get noticed. I'm just worried."

I rest a hand on her head. "Lizzie, how can I stop her going two thousand miles away when you'll be double that from here?"

"You just should."

"Why, because you're trustworthy, and she isn't?"

She grimaces. "Something like that?" She sighs. "I don't know, Daddy. I just know that Lydia, on her own, far away from here? That's a bad plan."

I shrug. "I can't stop her going any more than I can stop any of you from growing up."

She stands up. "She can't be trusted," she says, hollowly, "and other people can't be trusted around her." She stands in the doorway, looking incredibly disappointed, like her seven year old self again when I couldn't come to her ballet recital. "She's going to ruin this family."

"That's not fair," I say. "She may be a little wild, but she cannot do anything to yours or Jane's or any of your sister's reputations. Don't be so melodramatic darlin'."

She looks for a second like she might cry, then she sighs, pulls herself together, and says, "there's more to ruin than reputations in this family. I thought at least you would see that." And then she is gone in a whirl of disappointment and concern, and I am left to consider the various merits of my daughters, knowing that pleasing one will now surely upset the other. With five daughters, a father can never win.

* * *

**END OF PART II**


	26. Part III: We've got to stop meeting

**PART III**

**We've got to stop meeting like this**

Fr: williamdarcy at charlesbingley

To: jazz-square

Subject: Gird your loins

Hey there.

So, good news and bad news.

First, the good:

I'm coming home. Not forever, and certainly not, as some old dog from war, to lick my wounds. That interview that Charles gave a few days ago has assured me that there are no wounds to lick. He took full responsibility for the whole him-collapsing-the-first-night-of-the-democratic-convention thing. Which, you know, there really was nothing I could do about, besides wanging him over the head with a cricket bat a few weeks earlier and forcing him to rest. So I am not plagued by guilt. A bit tired, and right now, ignoring the slew of messages I'm getting (I know, get me) but actually, for once, reasonably content, I guess. So, anyway, I'm coming home for the two weeks that we had very sketchily pencilled in with Mrs R ages ago. Tell her gently. It might fell her to know that I'm actually coming for more than, you know, a night. And I know you're still hideously ill. So pump yourself pull of Vitamin C and Lemsip, because your germiness will only dissuade me slightly from hugging your head off.

But now, the bad:

Well. It doesn't start off bad. Charles is going to come too, at least for the first week. I know we'd rather have the time just for us (although if you make me watch Hannah Montana again, you can't understand the wrath that will fall on you) but the poor guy is getting so impressively hounded right now, and while the UK has a terrible rep for the paparazzi, we can at least control the access a little easier to the house what with the massive fences. So, he'll come too. Someone else for you to teach the Hoe Down Throw Down. However, the bad-bad news:

His sister Louisa, her husband Mitch, and Caroline are all coming too. I'm not entirely sure how it happened, but they kind of invited themselves, and I'm really, really sorry. Please don't leave anything hideous in my bed. We can get away from them. It's a big house and even bigger gardens. Hey- you could try and convince them of the relative merits of that King Arthur experience thing and send them off for a day. With any luck they'll get trapped in the underground rivers, or whatever it is there. Or we could run off to Anglesey for the day. Or we could hide in the attic. I know it sucks, and I'm sorry, but I'm telling you now, this is not, not, not the sleight and clever way that I am going to introduce you to your new sister-in-law, whatever Caroline is deluding herself about. Be on your guard. She may possess evil powers.

OK, so, can't wait to see you and your ugly face.

I'll be the one with the harried expression which turns to relief when you put the kettle on and assure me that the lock on my door still works.

Love you,

Will xxx

* * *

Fr: jazz-square

To: williamdarcy at charlesbingley

Subject: You KNOW how much I hate the word loins. Just for that, there'll be something hideous in your bed.

Hey right back.

May I just say, you haven't sounded that chilled in YEARS. Not that I'm glad the campaign fell to pieces or that you were vilified in the press for a few days, but it is nice to have the old Wilbo back again. Or would you rather I didn't refer to you as Wilbo Baggins in front of your new friends? TOUGH.

So, can't wait to see you and _your_ ugly face either.

Also can't wait to see you being fawned over by Caroline Formisano. Seriously Will. That's enough comedy for me. Leaving her and Charlie's troll-sister and dunce-brother-in-law in King Arthur's Labyrinth would not compare. Although her face if she won the solid gold dragon which the website is advertising would be priceless. OK, so maybe we will.

Give Charlie a kiss for me (and maybe photograph his horrified expression at you smooching him) and tell him to get better soon so that we can continue that game of beach-volley-frisbee-death that we started what, eight years ago?

Love you dude,

George xxx

* * *

"I have no idea what Jane was talking about. This Marmite is _amazing!_"

Philip and Aliz watch their niece with expressions of gentle disbelief. "Really?" asks Aliz as she shovels spoonfuls of porridge into Aggie's waiting mouth. "I tried to get the boys to like it years ago."

"What happened?"

"They threw it away when I was out of the room." She smiles wryly.

"Well yeah," says Phil. "That's because it's beyond disgusting."

"No," calls Aliz, as Lizzie vehemently shakes her head, eating the rest of her toast. "It's just an acquired taste." Lizzie waves her toast in agreement.

"Exactly," she says. "It's like when you try coffee the first time and think it's gross."

Her uncle eyes the large mug in front of her. "Not so much any more then?"

She grins. "Maybe not." Finishing her toast, she picks up the said coffee and takes a sip. "So," she asks, "what are we doing today?"

Phil claps his hands together, a little _too _exuberantly. "Well," he says, "I think today would be the perfect day to go to, now wait a minute…" He leafs through the pages of his notebook which he filled with researched days out, Abbeys and forests, famous tea rooms and sites of historical interest. Not surprisingly, the page he is searching for is very near the front of the notebook. "Ah, here," he says. "Brynhaidd Llannerch…no, wait…" He leaves the notebook, propped open with the marmalade jar on it, and also picks up his Welsh pronunciation guide. "Ah," he says. "Yes…" and proceeds to pronounce it again, this time with much more of a Welsh spin. "Or something like that," he says, catching his wife's cynical eye.

"And what about _this _place is of historical interest?" asks Lizzie. "Did Conan Doyle perhaps write here, or maybe a great battle take place?"

Philip shoots his niece a stern look. "No," he says, pointedly, "although you have been very interested by all the other places I've taken you so far."

"Yes Uncle Phil," she says, grinning into her coffee. "Actually, I really have," she concedes.

"Well it's all in a little planning," mutters Phil as he removes the marmalade, attempts to brush off some of the sticky residue, then examines the pages of close notes. Aliz grins at her husband, but says nothing, too busy wiping the oaty remains of Aggie's breakfast off her face.

"It is," says Phil after a few seconds of reading, "the ancestral home of the Gryffudd family, situated on the coast with beautiful views across the sea." He runs a finger along lines of writing. "Oh, and it's a great example of building over time, displaying Baroque architecture, a Palladian façade, and new renovations of the old working buildings."

"That does sound interesting, love," says Aliz, who, having wiped off Aggie, now sets her down on the floor to crawl, her new found and very dangerous hobby.

"And of course, there is more interest for you, Lizzie."

"Really?"

He smiles superciliously, clearly thrilled to pass on interesting news.

"Why yes. In the early eighteen hundreds, the family name changed through marriage, from Gryffudd, to Darcy."

Lizzie's smile drops. "Oh," she says, and then takes an overly long sip of coffee.

"Is that all right, sweetheart?" asks Aliz, turning to her rapidly cooling coffee and toast. "We don't have to go if you don't want to."

"Oh, but Aliz…"

She shoots Phil a warning look. "If there has been any difficulty between you two, then of course you might not want to see him."

"But he won't be there," says Phil, petulantly. "Worst luck," he adds. "The house isn't open when the family is there. That's why today is the day. It closes either tomorrow or the day after…"

Aliz turns back to Lizzie. "Would that be all right? I suppose we could always leave you doing something else. At that bookshop again perhaps?"

Lizzie takes a deep, steadying breath, and smiles. "No, it's fine. I'm just being silly. We've talked a few times since we…er…fought, and it would be fine anyway, I'm sure."

Phil leans over, his notes forgotten. "You fought with _William Darcy_?"

Lizzie shrugs. "Pretty much."

"Really?"

"There was some yelling involved."

He leans back. "Sheesh. Well, good thing he won't be there, eh?" He grins. "So we're on?"

Aliz gives Lizzie a careful look, who smiles slightly, and nods. "Sure" she says, and disappears behind her mug of coffee.

* * *

"…here is the music room, which, unlike many stately homes, is still used by the family to this day. While very involved in medicine and politics, the Darcy family has always kept a keen interest in the arts, especially the present generation. Georgiana Darcy is currently studying for an MA in Dance Performance in London."

"And is this the room where she practices?" asks a pushy member of our party.

"No," says the housekeeper, our tour guide. "I'm afraid that it isn't included on the tour, but Miss Georgiana uses the long gallery of the old house for practice."

A discontented murmur whispers around various members of our party. Why, I'm not sure. Give the poor family _some _privacy. Going round someone's house, especially someone you know, who's not there, feels like riffling through their underwear drawer. I'm sure I'm about to discover something that I should not know.

"And now, if you'll follow me, we'll continue on."

She leads us through a long gallery, presumably not the one used for dance practice, several bedrooms which are so perfectly period-drama-esque that I can't imagine anyone sleeping in them, past painting upon painting of people with Will's eyes, and finally into large, airy room, with views past the terrace, down the gardens and across the sea.

"Here is the final room on this floor," announces Mrs Reynolds. "After this are the old kitchens and servants hall, which are no longer used by the present family. This, however, is as far removed from the servants quarters as could be imagined. This is the drawing room."

It is stunning, with high ceilings and large paintings across the walls, although, unlike some of the other places we've been, none of hunts or beheadings, or general carnage. Large couches are drawn around an impressive fire, all looking remarkably comfortable, cosy and used. Bookcases, crammed full, offer a brilliantly weird collection, with first editions of Dickens sitting snugly next to _Mrs Frisby and the Rats of Nimh_, and the odd Nancy Drew rammed in on the ends.

"Please feel free to linger here a little while," says Mrs Reynolds, standing by the door, "and when you are ready, take the stairs down at the end of the hall."

"Lizzie, love, would you take Aggie for a second?" Aunt Al passes me my very sleepy, warm and heavy cousin. She immediately clings to my side, her head nestled against my neck.

"No, not at all," I murmur, reasonably ineffectually, given that Aggie's already clinging to me like a spider monkey.

Aliz and Phil have a quick word with Mrs Reynolds, who looks like she's flagging a little, and then they dart back into the room before. Still visible through the open door, they pore over the open books in the library, Aliz pointing and exclaiming at the tiny illustrations across old notebooks, Phil ignoring her completely as he soaks up all of the past political missives that have flowed from this house. I hate to admit it, but he was right in wanting to come here. It really is amazing.

"Are you all right dear?" asks Mrs Reynolds, suddenly at my elbow as she sits down next to me on the window seat.

"Oh, yes," I say. "It's all just so much to take in."

She smiles warmly. "It was clearly too much for…" she hesitates, "your niece?"

"Cousin," I correct. "Absolutely. She's seen more chandeliers and flocked wallpaper today than she has in her entire life."

She smiles again. "The same could probably be said of most people who visit." She looks around the room fondly, as it slowly empties of people.

"Have you worked here long?" I ask, breaking the silence.

"The present Mr Darcy's grandparents employed me when I was sixteen," she says. "I started out as a maid, and worked until after I was married, to the head gardener," she adds, with a smile. "Then when my children were at school, they employed me again in the holidays to look after their grandson."

"Will?" I ask, and at her raised eyebrows, suddenly realise what I may have betrayed.

She smiles a little. "Yes, Master William."

I grimace a little. I really don't want to be seen as one of those people who have fantasised and become friendly with someone I've never met, all in my head. "I know him," I admit. "I worked with Will on the recent campaign."

Her expression of confusion and slight fear of the crazy woman, clears. "Oh," she says, clearly relieved. "And you're going to miss seeing him! You know he arrives tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow?" My voice is squeaky, and I cough in an attempt to calm it down. Aggie shifts a little against my shoulder, my arm quickly losing all feeling.

She pats my non-dead arm. "Yes. I could let him know that you're in the area. Leave your phone number and…"

"Oh I'm sure he doesn't want to see me," I interrupt.

She frowns and shakes her head. "Nonsense. He loves to see people."

Will? Will loves to see people? Will the hermit non-talking non-expressive Will? "Really?"

She smiles. "I've heard from his cousin that it's not entirely how he is when he's working, but back here? He's a regular chatterbox."

I smile. "I'm not sure we're talking about the same Will Darcy here."

She grins back, stands up stiffly, then walks over to a desk, and picks up a heavy framed photograph. She holds it up for me to see, my hands rather full of Aggie. It's the same Will. Younger, messier, and scrawnier, a two year old girl in a poofy white dress standing on his lap, clearly trying to reach for something out of the picture, but there he is. Will. "Same Will," I say, quietly, and she smiles again.

"That's him as a little boy, above the fire."

The large painting shows an old couple, a formidable looking man with snowy hair and moustache, and a comfortable looking woman, and sitting on her knee, a small boy with tousled curls and a sailor suit with a distinctly disgruntled expression, despite the toy rabbit clutched tightly in his hand. Behind them stands three people, one slightly older man with a dark beard, and a couple, a man who is so much Will's double as to undoubtedly be his father, and a woman with what I never thought I'd recognise, I saw it so little, Will's smile.

"The late Mr Darcy never expected to inherit the house," confides Mrs Reynolds, also looking up at the painting. "It was supposed to go to his older brother there, Mister Ioan Darcy, but then he sadly died very shortly after this painting was finished, in a car accident."

"How awful!" I find myself murmuring, and she nods.

"Well I think this house was a blessing in the long run for Mister Rhys. He moved here soon after his wife died, and lived here until his death, a few years ago."

"I never knew…" I say, and then stop myself. Well of course I never knew. Will never told me anything personal. Why on earth would he have opened with a list of family tragedies?

Mrs Reynolds nods. "They don't talk a lot about it," she agrees, "and it sounds terrible when you list it like that, but we all got through it."

"I'm sure they were grateful for having you here," I say, turning back to Mrs Reynolds.

She smiles. "Thank you, dear," she says, a little croakily, and pats my hand. "Right," she says, standing up, and bustling back to the desk to replace the photo. "I should be getting on. Stay here as long as you like." With that, she walks out of the room, and down the corridor, disappearing down the twisty stairs. I glance back. Phil and Aliz are still exclaiming to each other about the books, so I stay where I am, and look again at that painting.

* * *

After a while of silent musing, and slow wonderings of how my aunt and uncle could _possibly _take so long looking at books which we have, actually, already looked at, I stand up carefully, walk over to the door and tell them in an under tone, that I'm heading downstairs to see the servants quarters. Rather than, as I expected, them saying 'yes, yes, of course, we've been so long', both Al and Phil look up briefly, grunt at me, and then turn back to the things they were studying, Aliz even to the point of copying sketches into her notepad. I sigh, turn back, and walk Aggie down the stairs, across a small hallway and into a yard with old buildings along one side, a few members of our party still milling around the entrance to the gardens. I look in at the servant's hall, but little remains beyond some rough furniture and a few beer tankards scattered around for character, so I walk into the gardens. Roses curl invitingly over arches, surrounded at their feet by lavender bushes, bumped with clouds of butterflies. Mock orange blossom scents the whole path as I walk to a seat surrounding a tree, and drop to it gratefully. It will be a happy day for all when my cousin can walk. I tuck my feet up onto the seat, so that her weight now rests on my knee, not my arm, and she settles again, eyelids fluttering on rosy cheeks. Sitting now, quietly, I look down the garden over flower beds in bloom, fountains with people gathered around, throwing in coins, and beyond all that expanse of garden and lawn, the sea, stretching out as far as I can see. This is pretty much idyllic. I'm not sure that it could really get any better.

My attention on the sea and gardens is drawn suddenly however by an exultant whoop in the house, following a tell tale scrunch of gravel and the shutting off of an engine. Doors from within the house slam, and feet pound along corridors with open windows right behind me, before more scrunching gravel, more feet, laughter, and Mrs Reynolds, visible through the arch by the house, standing with her hands on her hips, laughing.

"You said you weren't getting here today!"

"He always was bad on time management," says a new, excited voice.

And then "well I'm here now." And stepping forward to hug Mrs Reynolds, a younger girl prancing behind them, he freezes, looking over her shoulder, and sees what is no doubt my equally horrified expression, as I look right back into Will's eyes.

* * *

**And SHAZAM. We're in Pemberley. And yes, I changed the name. It didn't sound Welsh enough. And, although I can't for the life of me remember the details, I did work it out to mean the same thing because, yes, I am a massive nerd. **

**Thank you massively, yet again, for all the reviewing, particularly** Jelly Babes 101** and **MiToesesRTotallyRoses.** Such specific and enthusiastic reviewing is hugely appreciated. Also, **Ayannamoonmaiden **-you are so good for my ego. **

**Thank you so much. **


	27. Ebenezer Scrooge and the perfect cup

**Ebenezer Scrooge and the perfect cup of tea**

"Oh there you are Lizzie!" exclaims Uncle Phil, striding into the gardens. Aliz, hurrying behind him, looks incredibly apologetic.

"I had no idea how long we'd been," she says, and swiftly picks up Aggie, who immediately wakes, and wails.

Uncle Phil looks down on Aggie thoughtfully. "Oh dear," he murmurs. "It hasn't just been long for Lizzie." He grins at Aliz. Slowly, Aggie calms down, snuffles into her mother's neck, and, clinging on tightly, blinks slowly at the three faces surrounding her.

"Maybe we should be going," I suggest, an eye still past my Aunt and Uncle to the archway where Will has, momentarily, disappeared.

"Maybe," agrees Aliz, rubbing Aggie's back in soothing circles. "Though she appears all right for the moment. We've probably got time for a quick look round the gardens."

"Oh, yes," says Uncle Phil, and with an arm around his wife, heads off down one of the winding paths.

I look after them as they walk away, deep again in conversation about presidential letters and Whistler's painting, each talking about their own subject _at _the other. "Dammit," I find myself breathing, before dropping my bag, and watching lip balm, keys, phone, Blackberry, and all manner of crap that has lined my bag for years, rolling amongst the gravel of the path, hiding under shady leaves, gathering a fine dust over everything. "Dammit," I mutter again, and consider leaving all of my possessions there. The thought doesn't last long.

* * *

Will drains his mug of tea, brushes off the crumbs of the shortbread that Mrs Reynolds pressed upon him, then stands up.

"You're going to go and see the young lady?"

He pulls a face at Mrs Reynolds. "It would seem only fair," he says.

"Especially since when you saw her, you looked at her as if she was the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, and you'd just seen what a misery guts you really are," chimes in Georgiana, sitting on the table, swinging her legs. Will pushes her off the table as he walks out, and smiles involuntarily at the words she calls after him, and the gentle remonstration from Mrs Reynolds.

* * *

For anyone else these gardens would be beautiful. A stunning view with fragrant roses in the foreground. For me, it's as if I've been sucked backwards down a wormhole, landing on my head, shaking it clear, and finding my childhood in front of me, grown up. The old walnut tree with my tree house, of sorts, twists its way up to the sky. The wooden platform looks a lot smaller than I remember. And a lot more dangerous. No wonder my parents used to wince when I ran off to play. The roses are bigger though, and I don't know why, but I can smell them more now. Maybe subconsciously roses and lavender, salt water and fresh cut grass all make me think of home, but I never could have listed them until now. I swallow a lump in my throat as visions of my parents swim before my eyes. I hadn't thought about them in ages, and suddenly I'm smacked around the head with my entire life. If this is how it feels for your life to flash before your eyes, I'm not sure I'd want it again. It hurts too much. My mind is washed clean with memories, and I walk down the paths, pulling out bits of lavender, crushing them in my fingers, just to make it smell more, make the memories even keener, pain be damned. The bird house I made with Mr R is still up, still wonky, still probably the least efficient bird house in their architectural history, but still there. George's one is there too, better than mine, and more decorated. Painted ladybirds and leaves cover up its structural indiscretions. That, and the wonky letters reading _For the birds, from Georgie_ across the roof. I find myself smiling at it, and then feeling like a fool.

"Isn't it sweet!" says a little old lady, coming up the path. "I saw it earlier."

"It is," I say, a little reluctant to have my memories intruded upon.

She smiles gently, and continues up towards the house, as I walk down by the greenhouses, the smell of sunny tomato vines wafting out. I round the corner by the pond towards the best view of the house, only to hear someone already there, muttering curse words. From behind the ferns round the stone seat, she scrabbles up, hands full, and dumps them on the seat, before climbing back over, sitting next to her pile of possessions, and packing them back into her bag. I step forward from behind the apple tree.

"Lizzie?"

She looks up, her face falls, and she mutters "damn," before looking away, and continuing to pack.

* * *

"Do you mind if I sit?"

She waves a hand. "No…well…" She looks up properly, and smiles, a little ruefully. "It's your house."

Will shrugs, but sits by her as she finishes packing up the bag. Then, she turns to him with a look of determination. "Look," she says. "I'm sorry I'm here. We thought you'd be away, and I wouldn't have dreamed of coming had we thought…" She shrugs. "It's such an invasion of privacy."

"No," he says. "Not at all." And she smiles, very slightly.

"I don't know," says Lizzie, speculatively, dumping her now closed bag by her feet. "I remember what you said about this place."

Will frowns a little. "What I said?"

"That this is home, more than anywhere else."

He leans back, hands grasping the back edge of the seat, hair brushing the low hanging apple tree branches, and smiles. "It _is,_" he agrees. "I don't know…it's my guiding star and my anchor, all in one."

She looks at him slowly, but says nothing.

"A bit sappy maybe…but, you know," he continues, "I lived in three different places before I was eighteen. I wasn't exactly a nomad or anything, but none of them were really home. I don't really remember living in Tennessee apart from the swing in the garden, and I was away at boarding school for a lot of the time in New Hampshire, and I was at university when Dad moved us to Washington." He looks up at the house, shining in the afternoon sun, and smiles. "It's the one place that never changes."

Lizzie watches him, carefully. "But it must change a little," she says, slowly. "I mean, curtains and where things are and trees growing and…" She trails off, gesturing vaguely around with her hand. "You know," she says, and smiles.

"Yeah, it does, but my past is still here. It smells so much the same, and even the things I forget or the things that are new…they just seem right." He smiles, genuinely, and glances at Lizzie. "I half expect to meet myself walking around this garden, climbing trees and learning to swim."

"In your sailor suit?" she asks, all innocence but with a lurking smile.

He shoots her a swift glance, then smiles to himself. "No," he says. "That was worn with very bad grace, and only the once."

"I can imagine."

He turns to look at her again. "So," he begins, "are your family all well?"

"Fine," she says. "Jane's working for Zimmerman."

"Yes, I know."

She looks flustered for a second, embarrassed that she brought it up. "Oh…right, sorry."

He smiles a genuine, warm smile. "It's fine."

"OK," she says, and pulls herself together. "Well everyone else is all right. I think Lydia's off in California somewhere right now, no doubt making an idiot of herself."

He smiles again, but says nothing.

"How about your family? Richard and Jules and…" She trails off again, running out of steam.

Will nods. "They're good too. The girls are running around now and starting to talk, and Sam's always brilliant."

"And your sister?"

"Really well." He bites his lip for a second, then out of the blue, "how long are you around for?"

She shrugs. "This was the last thing we had on our itinerary to do. We left a few days at the end of our holiday for things we'd forgot, but really, we've done it all."

"Would you consider coming back tomorrow? I'd love for you to meet my sister."

Lizzie looks surprised. "She's here?"

He nods. "Has been all week. She had flu or something, so came home early and got pampered by Mrs R. I mean," he continues, "you don't have to. You could meet her now, but it would be nice to have time, you know?"

She smiles. "Yeah, I do. I'll have to check with my aunt and uncle."

"Right, of course," he says, nodding. "Well, might you have time for tea now, just in case?"

She smiles slowly at his hopeful expression. "We might," she says, and he nods, pleased.

* * *

"There's more?"

"Oh yeah," says Will. "There's another whole library, plus all the stuff I've stolen and hidden in various places."

"Then we'll definitely come again tomorrow," says Phil, gesturing wildly with his cup and saucer, slopping the tea over the rim.

Will grins, actually grins, and catches George's eye.

Lizzie smiles to see it. For a brother and sister so far apart in age and distance, they are remarkably, insanely close. When Mrs Reynolds started pouring the tea for them all, Will swiftly stood up, opened a cupboard, and whipped out two mugs, infinitely larger and less delicate. He had raised his eyebrows at Lizzie, holding one up, but she smiled and shook her head. He smirked, sat back down and replaced two of the fine bone china cups with their larger, thicker counterparts. Upon closer inspection, one was painted with a red W. The other had a yellow G. Now, each mug sits possessively curled in each Darcy siblings hand, as both dunk shortbread in their drinks.

"I never realised that you were so closely tied to the UK," says Phil, trying to surreptitiously mop up the spilled tea.

"Yes," says Will, easily. "We've come and gone from this house several times a year, all my life."

Aliz smiles, handing Lizzie a baby biscuit for Aggie who starts making short work of it. "Do you miss the Wales when you're in America?"

"Oh yes," he says, and grins at Mrs Reynolds. "Especially the tea."

Lizzie frowns, absentmindedly. "You drink tea in the States," she says, then blushes slightly to find Will smiling back at her.

Mrs Reynolds snorts, then looks a little sheepish.

"Mrs R wouldn't call that tea. None of the stuff she's ever bought from _Starbucks,_" says George, curled up as only a dancer can on her kitchen chair. "She'd call it a disgrace to the name of the drink."

"Well it is!" says Mrs Reynolds, defensively. "Hot water, a tea bag, and a paper cup do not a cup of tea make."

Aliz nods. "It should involve a pot, and definitely _boiling _water. And china."

"See!" says Mrs Reynolds, glaring at the two Darcys, grinning back at her. "Isn't that what I've said all these years?"

Will grins. "It was something like that."

"Yes, but never so concise" puts in George.

She scowls at them for a second. "But wasn't I right?"

"Yes, you were," admits Will, leaning back comfortably in his chair. "I drink more coffee over there." He catches Lizzie's eye and grins.

"Of course, the tea isn't the only issue across the pond," says George, turning to her brother. "There is the small joy of your accent."

He groans, as Lizzie says, "I noticed that…you suddenly sound much less…"

"American?"

She grins. "Well, yeah."

Mrs Reynolds stands up and stirs something slowly cooking on the Aga. "You've reverted him a little, love. An hour ago, he had almost shed his entire accent."

"And picked up the lilt of the valleys again," adds George, looking delighted.

"All right that's enough," says Will, with a studied American accent, before elbowing George firmly in the ribs.

"Well this has been lovely," begins Aliz, "but I guess, Phil…?"

Philip stirs himself. "Right, yes. We had better be getting on."

"But we'll see you again tomorrow?"

Phil grins. "Just try and stop us."

* * *

**Thank you all, so much, yet again. **


	28. Honesty for breakfast

**Honesty for breakfast, with a side of revelations, all washed down with the Amazing Adventurers**

Lizzie _had_ agreed to an early morning walk from the holiday cottage up to the great house in all innocence but only an hour after leaving the cottage, and several miles into thick, cool woods, Georgiana Darcy shows her hand.

"Look," she says, stopping abruptly as they cross an old wooden bridge. "There was another reason I wanted to talk to you alone, before you came…later." She frowns at her own confusion.

"You mean other than my innate charm and wit?"

George grins at Lizzie, bends down and picks up the stick that Bertie has hopefully dragged to her. "Yes," she says. "Other than that."

Lizzie leans back against the hand rail of the bridge and eyes the younger girl. Georgiana looks nervous, passing the stick back and forth between her hands, driving Bertie to distraction. "Look," George finally manages. "It's Will."

"He's all right?"

The nervous look disappears, replaced by a strangely smug smile. "Yes, of course. It's just, he likes you."

"Oh I'm not sure…"

"I am," she says definitely, "and he deserves to have someone like him back."

Lizzie looks at her hard. Like him back? She swallows nervously. "Well, I'm sure he does, but…"

George swings the stick through the air in an arc, very nearly causing Bertie to hurl himself into the tiny stream. She grins. "I'm not meaning to warn you off or anything. I just thought you should know that if he _does, _you know, do anything about it, then it will be a cataclysmic event. The planets will have had to align and you know…"

"Hell freeze over?"

George grins again at Lizzie's tone. "I'm not really being very encouraging. I meant to…well, what I was trying to say was that it takes a lot for him to trust anyone, and the last thing that he needs is someone slamming it back in his face."

"I wouldn't do that," says Lizzie, her hands twisting together as she silently adds 'again'.

George leans forward, and rests a hand on Lizzie's arm. "I didn't think you would. Please don't think I'm trying to dissuade you. I really do think he likes you, and despite a strange love of Elvis, Will has excellent taste."

"I love Elvis," Lizzie murmurs, more to herself than anything else. She sighs. "Look, I'm not saying that I'm looking to be with Will, but really, how can I trust him if he won't tell me anything?"

George nods, turns, and finally hurls the stick down stream. Above the noise of a small dog crashing through the undergrowth, she says, "come on. Let's carry on."

Lizzie sighs and follows, her hands falling dejectedly by her sides. If George won't tell her then Will certainly won't. A cold, wet nose pushes itself into her limp palm as George's other dog ambles up behind her. Having flinched for a second, she rests her hand on the Lurcher's head, and follows George into the sunlight in a small, tree edged meadow. Bertie bursts into the long grass and buttercups, his stick triumphant in his mouth, and ears streaming behind as he skids to a halt in front of George. She laughs, wrestles the stick away from him, and then throws it ahead of them, then straightens up, brushes her hands off on her jeans and turns to Lizzie. "He ever tell you that both our parents are dead?"

Startled, and already resigned to a halting walk to the house, Lizzie shakes her head, desperately trying to find words. Finally she manages, "not in as many words. I knew, but he never really said it…"

George nods.

"I'm sorry," Lizzie adds, feeling that it probably does nothing.

George smiles. "Thanks. I never really knew my Mum. I was pretty small when she died. Will was away at school too."

"He wasn't there?"

"They thought he was too young to cope, knowing that she was dying, so they didn't tell him until the end, and then it was too late."

Lizzie sighs, filled with sudden empathy for Will. "That's when you moved to Washington?"

George smiles wryly. "Pretty soon after that. No one told Will. Again. He was just picked up from boarding school and taken to the new house. He never got to go back home."

Lizzie gasps, involuntarily. "Why?"

"I don't really know," says George softly, fondling Horatio's silky, grey ears as he stops to examine a rabbit hole. "I think Dad just wanted to get away, but Will never got to say goodbye to Mum, and then didn't see the house again, where all his memories of her had been, you know?"

"Yeah," breathes Lizzie, pausing in the golden sunshine before they open the kissing gate and head back into more woods.

Helping a struggling Bertie through the gate with a massive stick, George is preoccupied for a minute, but then as Bertie shoots ahead, dragging his stick, she falls back in step with Lizzie. "Anyway," she continues, "I guess we moved because Dad wanted us all to be together, even while Will was at college, but a few years later Dad moved us again, back here. I guess, for him, Mum was just everywhere in America."

"She never came here?"

"No, we all did, every summer I think, but this was where he grew up. This wasn't just Mum to him. I guess he barely spent anytime in the US without her, until, you know, after she died."

"So Will was alone again."

George smiles slightly. "I don't think he minded that. It gave him time to breathe, but I think he worried for me, with Dad getting quieter and quieter, and disappearing on us and…well, anyway, Will elected to do his Masters at Oxford so that he could at least keep at closer eye on us for a bit, but then he got offered work on the Santos campaign and so went back to America."

"He didn't finish it out though, did he? I thought I heard he left at quite a critical stage."

George bites her lip for a second. "He came back for me," she says, "because Dad killed himself."

* * *

I've never been slugged in the stomach with a baseball bat, but I can imagine how it feels. Will Darcy, who now I think about it, I only truly hated for two days before he told me about Wickham and his sister, but about whom I have grumbled and groaned, rolled my eyes at his silence, shrugged at his impassive nature, and decided he might be a psycho, especially after the Pelloux fundraiser debacle. That Will Darcy, it turns out, was told too late that his mother was dying, never again got to see the house where she raised him, would have given up any job for his little sister, and now, it turns out, did in fact give up working on a ground breaking campaign, because his father committed suicide. The hits just keep on coming.

I turn to Georgiana, with what certainly feels on the inside, like an expression of slack horror. "He killed himself?"

She nods slightly, a sad smile on her lips. "Yeah. Thank God it was while Will was at home, but, yeah, all the same."

I cringe. "He found…?" I can't quite finish the question. The reality seems to hideous to bear.

"He guessed," she says looking down into Horatio's soulful eyes as she strokes his ears, comfortingly. "The dogs were howling at the locked study door. He sent me to the kitchen, and then went outside to look through the window."

Part of me, a ghoulish, horrified part, wants to know how he did it. I don't know why. I just feel like I need to know.

"It was pills," she says, without my needing to ask. "I'm so grateful that it wasn't something worse, but still…" She shrugs, and lets out a deep breath. She looks up at me. "He had cancer and never told us," she says, tears rimming her eyes. "He couldn't bare the thought of going through it, just like Mum had done."

"But it was, what, ten years after your Mom? Surely there were new ways to treat it and…I don't know…" I trail off, sighing.

"I don't know why. All I know now is that Will never got to say goodbye to either of our parents, and shouldered all his grief, and carried on."

I slip an arm round her shoulders. "So have you," I say, feeling like it's the most pathetic excuse for comfort next to all that tragedy.

She smiles. "He looked after me, he listened to me. I think he shut off every one and every thing but me for a bit." She sighs. "He has been extraordinary, and I can't believe that I almost screwed even that up for him."

"Wickham?"

She nods. "I thought you probably knew," she says, and smiles wryly. "He wasn't a monster, and he might have changed, but he would have split up our family and left Will without anyone." She swallows, and shakes her head slowly. "I couldn't do that. Not again, and not for anything."

Somehow, I find myself silently agreeing.

George sniffs, smiles at me, then with a hand still on Horatio's noble head, we continue walking. "So," she says as she picks up another stick which Bertie has just dragged towards us. "What's your Caroline Formisano coping technique? I personally favour derision."

* * *

I have rarely seen a sight more funny than Caroline's present facial expression. They arrived about twenty minutes ago, put massive suitcases and clothing bags in their rooms, and emerged down on the terrace looking, in Mitch's case, still incredibly jet lagged, stubbly and not at all 'freshened' and in Louisa and Caroline's cases, as if they just finished a day at the spa. I guess George is right. If you pay enough, you can buy just about anything to slap on your face and make it look like just about anything. Charles still looks tired and a bit crumpled round the edges, but there's a relaxed look about him which has been missing. I guess the lack of harassment in his face mirrors mine. Anyway, we were sitting out here, Charles exclaiming at the view in all sincerity, Louisa and Caroline exclaiming with little sincerity, and Mitch slowly falling asleep, only to be awakened by his own stomach rumbling.

"We don't have to wait for George," I said, but Louisa slapped my hand, albeit lightly and said that of course Mitch could wait, and she was _dying_to meet George. She had heard so much about her. Allegedly. I can't imagine how that lasted the whole transatlantic flight, as she has been saying, given that Caroline has only met George twice, giving them a cumulative relationship of three hours. Anyway, Louisa's fawning aside, a minute later, Bertie burst out through the rhododendrons, spotted new victims, and bounded up, closely followed by George. Caroline mewled in delight, but stopped short when Lizzie followed out onto the lawn. Caroline's face went from perfectly composed delight at seeing what I can only presume she believes to be her future sister-in-law, to fabulously unrestrained horror. Slack jaw, bug eyes, the works. George, revelling in it, bounded up behind Bertie and lavishly kissed Caroline on each cheek.

"Caroline," she said. "How lovely to see you again." With that, she turned and gestured to Lizzie. "You know Lizzie, right?" She turned back, and smiled, smugly. "You worked together, right Will?"

And here we are. The funniest sight I have seen in ages: Caroline Formisano trying to process that Lizzie is here, that I have allegedly been talking about a) Lizzie and b) Caroline to George. Clearly she's fighting with herself over whether it's good news or bad news. The hilarity of the moment is compounded by Louisa going: "Oh _Lizzie!_ Caroline has told me _all _about you!" We need not imagine what she has been told. Oh, and then Charles gets up and hugs Lizzie. In front of Caroline.

"We missed you these last few months," he says, and she smiles at him, genuinely.

Caroline finally regains control over her face. "Of course," she murmurs, with a little too much sincerity. "What have you been doing with your time?"

Lizzie winces ever so slightly. "Helping out at home, mainly."

"Of course," she simpers again. "Work on a farm is never done!" She laughs, and there is a knock on effect of both Lizzie and George looking like knives have gouged their brains.

"Well," says George. "I think breakfast is in order. I haven't dragged Lizzie all this way, just to not feed her!"

With that, she stands up and drags Lizzie back toward the house. Before they make it to the side door, they are both laughing, hard. For once, I doubt that I am the subject.

* * *

I like Lizzie Bennet. And not like _that_. My heart belongs to the guy who was William Buxton in _Cranford_, AKA, the future Mr Georgiana Darcy. I mean, it's not like Will would ever have given me vetting privileges on any girl he met, and would probably try and keep them away from me, largely to stop us from ganging up on him, but honestly, it's too late. He may be smitten with her, but she's already officially the treasurer of the newly resurrected _Amazing Adventurers._ I founded it when I was seven. Will _was _the treasurer, but he dared to tell my that the caves down on the beach don't lead to gold mines or a smugglers cove, and so, naturally, he was stricken from the ledger. Lizzie, however was all for prising off the wood panelling in the hall to find secret passages, and so while she has taken over the heating of croissants and making coffee, I'm making her a badge. It turns out my glitter skills left me a few years ago. Also, I suspect Mrs R thinks that I've finally snapped.

"What on earth are you doing?"

"Making a badge."

Will raises an eyebrow and leans over to see the intricate fluorescent yellow marker, red wax crayon, black biro design that I have carefully drawn. He groans.

"Not the _Amazing Adventurers _again George. I'm telling you now, if you so much as ask for chisels from Mr R, I'm cutting your allowance."

Lizzie snorts, facing away from us, but we hear.

"Solidarity Lizzie!"

She glances over her shoulder, and grins. "Sorry. No bagging on the _Amazing Adventurers_ Will. Just because you were summarily stripped of your sash and crown."

He grins, and walks over to her, leaning against the worktop. "You're not much of an adventurer if you think it can be done with a sash and crown. Not very practical."

She laughs. "Well that just shows how much of an amateur you are. You try doing it in heels and with a Martini in you. Now _that_ is hard."

He laughs right back, and continues bantering, all the while finding jam and butter. In short, they look like a young married couple in their kitchen, making breakfast. Will hasn't looked this happy in ages. Well, except for about twenty minutes ago when Caroline saw Lizzie. He was practically giggling and clapping then. I suspect that the old 'you're not losing a brother but gaining a sister' adage has never been so (potentially) true. Now if he can only get on with it and make this work. Maybe it will take some work from Captain George M. Darcy, chief adventurer explordinaire.

* * *

Mithurzt: What the hell? I thought we were here for Caroline to get it off with Darcy.

Lou: And that'll happen. I guess he's trying to make her jealous.

Mithurzt: A douche like Darcy wouldn't notice a stone fox like Caroline if she landed naked in his bed. Fact.

Lou: Honey, you aren't a toilet cleaner commercial. For pity sake, don't do that FACT thing out loud. It's bad enough on the Blackberry.

Mithurzt: Fine, but it's true. I say leave him to girls like Liz, and you can find someone else for Caroline.

Lou: Yeah, maybe. She would look good with TJ. Or Todd. Though it would be fun to visit her here.

Mithurzt: It's not as good as your parent's place. What about Chuck?

Lou: What about him? And why are you still calling him that?

Mithurzt: She could marry him.

Lou: :-)

* * *

"So, Lizzie. I hear that you've taken a fancy to Russell's new boy."

Lizzie glances across at Caroline, simultaneously holding out her mug for more coffee from George. "Sorry?" she asks.

"Oh you know," says Caroline. "George Wickham."

"I…OW, crap."

"Oh Lizzie, I'm so…"

Will stands up and gently pushes Georgiana towards the kitchen. "Kitchen roll, G," he says, before hunkering down in front of Lizzie, who is shaking a smarting hand. "Are you all right?"

She smiles, distracted. "Yeah, fine, other than looking like I wet myself." She grins and makes a futile attempt to brush the slop of coffee off her jeans. "I'll go and sort myself out."

"Run your hand under cold water," Will says to her retreating back.

She glances back over her shoulder and smiles. "All right _Mom_."

Will stands, watching her walk away for a second, before refilling his own coffee cup.

"I heard that he dumped Mary King for her."

Silence falls for a few seconds. Will turns to Caroline, wearily. "Sorry?" he asks, realising that the statement was directed at him.

"Wickham. Somehow he bagged Mary King…"

At Will's blank look, Lou takes patronising pity on him. "She's a big thing in Hollywood," she says, a hand on his arm.

"Yes," continues Caroline, "and allegedly, though frankly, I'm not sure why, he dumped her and pursued Elizabeth."

"Really?" says Charlie, feigning interest.

Mitch and Louisa exchange conspiratorial glances, and lean forward.

"Oh…"says Caroline, temporarily giving up on Will, and turning back to Charlie. "Yes. That's what Juliet Donally says."

"Wow," says Charlie, taking the heat for Will, who suddenly stands and walks off down the lawns, accompanied by the dogs.

* * *

Lou: She'd be a good first lady.

Mithurzt: So would you, if it wasn't like, incest and gross. And that you're taken.

Lou: My hero.

* * *

"I'm _so_ sorry," comes the disembodied voice of Georgiana Darcy for what must be the fiftieth time from the depths of her wardrobe.

Lizzie readjusts the cold flannel on her hand and sighs. "It's fine George, really. I should have warned you."

George appears in the doorway. "You didn't need to." She smiles, a little sheepish. "After all, I am so clearly fine with it." She rolls her eyes and disappears back inside.

"How long ago was it?"

"Two years," comes the muffled reply.

"George, are you trying to suffocate yourself in Gap basics?"

George appears in the doorway, smiling. "Not quite. Here. Try this." She throws a dark blue jersey skirt at Lizzie.

"Yeah, like we're the same size. This is very sweet of you, but you're clearly about five sizes smaller than me."

George scoffs and disappears back in the wardrobe. "Nonsense," she calls. "I have hips and an ass and…you know."

"What, the composite parts of the body?" asks Lizzie, her jeans pooled on the floor as she pulls on the skirt. "Yeah, I have a pretty good handle on them."

George reappears holding something else, pulling a face, which clears as she sees Lizzie. "Hey, that looks good on you. Don't need this then." She hurls the linen back inside the wardrobe, clicks off the light, and steps out.

"You sure?" asks Lizzie, smoothing down the soft fabric.

George plumps down on the bed. "Yes. You look lovely."

Lizzie grins. "Well, thank you. I'll take good care of it."

George waves a dismissive hand. "It looks weird on me. Keep it."

"George!"

She grins. "Come on. Let's go and apple pie Caroline's bed."

"Wait, can I ask something?" says Lizzie, a stilling hand on George's arm.

"Sure, as long as we can go and cause some chaos" says George, gesturing towards Caroline's room.

"Are you really over him?"

She turns and her smile drops. With one hand she pushes her thick golden hair off her face, the other on a hip. "I guess," she says, and bites her lip. "No, I am," she says suddenly, with more certainty. "I am. It's just weird hearing about him again."

Lizzie nods slowly. "We never had anything going on. Really. And when I heard about you, I stopped everything else."

George smiles slowly. "Thank you. I don't have much against him now, and you never know. It might have all worked out perfectly well given time. It just wasn't right then."

"Very philosophical of you."

She grins and links arms with Lizzie. "Enough of this. Let's go apple pie something."

* * *

**I think this might be three of my original chapters, jammed together. Individually, they were a bit short. So, enjoy the longer chapter. The next few will be shorter, and I'm not sticking them together, so don't ask. I work hard to find a good last line. I feel cheated if it's suddenly in the middle of a chapter. **

**Anyway, thank you, yet again, for all your fabulous support. It has buoyed my up through the first two chapters of Mystery New Project X (which looked like it was going to become Mystery New Project Never to See the Light of Fanfiction X) and now it's getting somewhere. I've also mentally written the epilogue of Mystery New Project Y. So. If you want to ever see them come to light, continue being so great. Otherwise, I'll take the hint.**


	29. Heading for the Chinese Dragon

**Heading for the Chinese Dragon**

Fr: jfb at zimmerman

To: ebethbnet

Subject: Hi

Hi there. I hope you're having a good time over there. I'm very envious. I tried to phone you, but it didn't get through. I guess you haven't got much signal there or something. Anyway, could you phone me when you're not too busy? We've got some news that you'll want to hear. Nothing terrible. Just a bit…well, could you phone me?

Thanks.

Lots of love, as always.

J xxx

* * *

"Look," says George as we reach the top corridor. "I really could do with doing a bit of practice and warming up. You know. Do you mind?"

"Not at all," I say. "Is there any way to get into the gardens and avoiding Caroline?"

George grins. "Easy. Secret passage, rope bridge and riddle combination all right?"

"Oh sure. I am after all a worthy adventurer."

"Damn straight." George grins again. "Go out onto the drive at the kitchen. You can sneak down the side of the garden without being seen from the terrace."

"Thanks," I say, and run down the curving staircase, leaving George to do her work. Exiting the house opposite the old servant's quarters, and finding myself back where I had started in the garden the previous day, I take a deep breath. Since then, I bumped into Will, met his sister and housekeeper, got invited to spend today here, instead got shanghaied early by George on a dog-walk to go with her and turned up early for breakfast, had coffee thrown over me, and now am contemplating commando rolling my way down the garden just for five minutes peace. It really is a beautiful garden. I wander down the sloping gardens, in between old bent apple trees covered in honeysuckle, and roses, out of control and waving tendrils in the breeze. I think that forever, this smell of roses and lavender will make me think of this place, Will, this summer. I round the corner by the greenhouses and see down one path, through the trees, the bench where Will found me. In the other direction, the trees and bushes clear to offer a perfect view of the house, and, unfortunately, the terrace. I duck and run. Literally. Past the greenhouses and back into better cover between arches of greenery dripping with yellow flowers. The path finally leads down mossy steps and properly out of sight of the house onto a lower level and a fantastic view of the sea. I stand still at last, and breathe in the salty fragrant air. This place really is extraordinary. The lawn slopes up and away to the left. No doubt it joins the sloping lawns where George and I arrived out of the woods. Ahead of me, paths lead through rocky ground downwards, amongst pine trees towards the sea. I can't help but follow them. The sea calls me. Off to the right, Mr R stands over a couple of younger gardeners, a cup of tea in hand as he supervises the rebuilding of a dry stone wall. He grins and waves, and I wave back. This could have been my life. The thought nearly fells me. I mean, it's not like Will proposed, but surely that's where it _could_ have gone, and then what? This would have been my house, my garden. My view. And George would have been my sister-in-law. Mr and Mrs R would have been my friends. Will would have been…well. I take a deep breath and keep on walking down the twisty path. It's not like Will suddenly becomes more attractive because of his house and garden. It's more like…like he's happier here. I understand him more here, and I like him more here. We're friends, and I have no idea when that happened. Somewhere between tea and hearing about his past. The path plateaus and a wooden staircase leads down onto the sandy cove below. The sun scatters light across the waves, and seagulls wheel overhead. I can't help it. I need to capture this. To remember it. I reach into my bag and find my camera sitting right between my cell phone and Blackberry. Both are blinking with new messages. I sigh, and resolve just until I get onto the beach and feel the therapeutic sand beneath my feet, to ignore them and live in this beautiful moment. I take photos, all round, put the camera away, walk down onto the beach, kick off my flip flops, sigh, then finally reach back into my bag.

* * *

Feeling like for the first time in twenty-four hours that he's really breathing properly, Will emerges from the bottom of the woods, over the sand dunes, and onto the beach. The dogs scamper ahead and he sighs, relieved to at last feel free. Since seeing Lizzie yesterday there hasn't been a second to take stock. Before he had really heard himself, he had invited her to tea and then to the house today, and then Caroline and Charles took focus, but not before George went and stuck her oar in. Will pauses, focussing on a tiny fish trawler, miles out to sea, and wonders exactly what they talked about. Seagulls dive bomb the boat as it moves slowly, and he sighs again, taking in a deep breath of the salty air. Knowing George, (post-Wickham-George. Talkative-monster-of-communication-George) they probably talked about everything. Every secret, every story, every embarrassing moment. Lizzie probably knows his past. Is that so bad? Maybe. He obligingly takes the old piece of driftwood that Bertie has dragged up, and hurls it into the sea. With joyous abandon, Bertie hurls himself into the cold water, ears flapping, tail wagging. Will smiles. Maybe it isn't so bad after all. Maybe Lizzie needed to know. What had she said? _It's not hard to not lie if you never talk._ The memory lies like a splinter in his mind, shifting and irritating. So maybe talking would have been better. He takes another deep breath. It is certainly easier to talk here. Maybe he should go and find her and talk. Maybe he should… All the maybes leave him as he sees her standing knee deep in the water a little way ahead, arms wrapped around herself, hair whipping behind her in the breeze. He should he decides. There is no maybe.

"Lizzie?" he asks, tentatively, walking along the shore line.

She turns suddenly and her stricken expression forces all thoughts of the past out of his mind.

"What's wrong?"

She takes a deep breath, and turns, looking back out to sea. "My sister got married."

"Your sister got…not Jane?"

She half laughs. "No…no." She turns again. "How could you think she would with him and…" She glances back up at the house meaningfully, then turns back out to sea. For the first time, Will feels a slight sting of guilt about levering Charlie and Jane apart. "No. Lydia."

"Your youngest sister?"

She nods.

"You didn't know she was getting married?"

"I didn't even know she was seeing anyone," she says, her voice strained.

Bertie bombs up the beach, driftwood retained and clamped firmly in his jaws. He skids to a halt, and drops the wood. Will glances at him, takes the wood and hurls it back in the other direction, all for a moment of peace. "It must be hurtful for her to have done this without you," he says slowly, "but is it all that bad?"

"Yeah," breathes Lizzie, arms still wrapped around herself, still staring out to sea.

"But maybe she'll grow up and take responsibility? And she was away at college, wasn't she? Surely you won't see _less _of…"

"It's Wickham," she says in a small voice.

Will doesn't answer for a second, wondering if he heard correctly. "What?" he asks eventually.

She turns. "She married George Wickham, in Vegas."

Will says nothing. There is, after all, nothing to say.

Lizzie sighs and shrugs, looking almost resigned. "We both know how he was. He won't want her to have any contact with us, and Lydia's not like Georgiana. She'll make that decision fast, and easily."

"He might have changed," Will starts to say, but stops.

"He hasn't. He dropped Mary King because her family were getting too close for comfort. He walked away and straight away tried to get with me."

Will's jaw stiffens noticeably.

"I said no," continues Lizzie. "It was just after…" She stops. "Just before Christmas, and I didn't exactly trust him."

"But they're married now," begins Will, slowly. "Maybe he'll just need time."

Lizzie shakes her head. "My father is already on his way to Vegas to try and find them and get this annulled. You know as well as I do that at the first sign of my family's disapproval, he and Lydia will disappear and never make contact again."

Will says nothing again.

"There's nothing I can do," she says, eyes filling with tears. "I've lost my sister."

Before he can even remember that he's wearing socks and trainers on his feet, Will has walked into the water, and pulled Lizzie against his chest, wrapping his arms tight around her. They stand that way for an age, rocked by the sway of the sea. Will's shirt front feels cold and damp against his skin, but he doesn't care. Eventually, she takes a shuddering breath and wipes her eyes, Will's arms still holding her close. She glances down.

"Your shoes," she says thickly through tears.

"They don't matter," he murmurs, his lips against her hair. She sighs again, and he holds her closer for a minute, before she moves out of his arms awkwardly. She rubs her own arms and begins to walk out of the water. "What are you going to do?" asks Will and she looks up at him.

"Go home," she says with a sad smile, then walks up the beach, picks up her shoes then climbs the rickety stairs and disappears out of view.

* * *

**I am reliably informed that I was a little surly in my last author's note. I apologise if any of you agreed with my sister. I was going for brisk.**

**Thank you all, yet again, for your unbelievable support. If I thought I had interesting things to say to you all, I'd message you each, every time and thank you. I doubt, however, that it'd be very fascinating. It'd probably be along the lines of 'thanks. Again.' So. Please accept my group message of huge gratitiude.**

**That said, I do need to say that:**

schnook**_: _Jeepers. I have read the kind of story you just described there before. I am over the moon that you think I have written one of them. **

MiToesesRTotallyRoses: **I love a bulleted review. And I love someone who apologises for not having reviewed sooner. And someone who is so jazzed to be mentioned (so I did it again). And I hear you about George-I actually prefer her a bit quieter as a character (as opposed to the whackadoodleish manicly personable ones) but I also like the idea that while shy in public, she's silly and chatty and all in private. That's what I'm going for anyway. And the one-a-day thing only really stopped because I got my pants in a bunch that I'd finish posting this, be only three words into Secret Project X, and then, when I got round to posting it, you'd all have forgotten me. Also, I was jamming chapters together at such a rate of knots that I thought we might get through this at an alarming rate. However, next few cannot be jammed. They are much better shorter. Therefore, I shall endevour to post one-a-day again. **

**and **titans123: **Your reviews excite me. Every single review excites me. Each one is a dearly treasured nugget of joyous wonderment. Or something like that. So, please continue. All of you. It makes my day to see a review, even more to see several. **


	30. There's not much to see

**There's not much to see when you're inside a Chinese Dragon**

"You really think it's all that bad?"

Jane, home for a rare weekend, sits at the end of Lizzie's bed. Kit paces the length of the room. Mary sits in the window seat, sketching out of pure frustration.

"Yeah," says Lizzie. "He's the jealous type. He won't want to share her, especially if he thinks that we don't approve."

"How could he possibly ever think that we will approve?" mutters Mary, darkly.

"Maybe he did the honourable thing…?" begins Jane, before stopping at three equally incredulous expressions. "Or not."

"Don't fool yourself," says Kit on her three-hundredth lap of the room. "Lydia wasn't holding out for marriage."

Her three sisters all pull expressions of distaste.

"You can't imagine how much I don't want to know," says Mary, picking up charcoal and sweeping it across the page.

"Me either," mutters Lizzie, pulling her knees up tighter to her chin.

"I knew," explodes Kit, kicking the wall before wheeling round and pacing back the other way. "I knew that something was going on. She kept on talking about her mystery man, about how they were going to meet up and how great it was that she had a tent all to herself…"

"Seriously," snaps Mary, shooting her sister a dark look. "I _really_ don't want to know."

Kit scowls at her, but thankfully does not continue. She sighs. "She even said that she hoped you never found out," she says, looking at Lizzie. "I should have known," she says, and kicks the wall again.

Jane attempts to reach out to her sister, but Kit continues walking out of range of Jane's hand. "She deliberately didn't say anything to anyone explicitly."

"Thank goodness."

Jane shoots a look at Mary, then turns back to Kit. "It's not your fault."

Kit stops, leans against the door, then slides down it until she is sitting on the floor. "I know she's an idiot" she begins, "but is it really all that bad? I mean, they're just married. It's not like they're doing it all in front of us or something"

Mary pulls an expression of such revulsion that Lizzie almost laughs. She pulls herself together. "That might have been better. I mean, from what you say, that's pretty much what Lydia's been doing anyway."

"Oh come on," mutters Mary, but she is ignored by her sisters.

"This way, as far as she's concerned, she has made it. She doesn't need college, doesn't need our money, and doesn't need us."

Jane frowns. "We're more than a bank to her, Liz. I know," she continues at Lizzie's expression, "you don't think so, but we're family."

"This isn't a Disney movie," says Mary. "She won't suddenly come to a crashing realisation that she needs us. Not, at least, until the money dries up and Wickham leaves her, pregnant, for someone else."

"Mary!"

"She's right," says Lizzie, wearily. "George isn't a monster. He might even love her. I know, I _know_ we're not just a bank to her, but from what Kit says, she has fallen entirely for him. Why wouldn't she choose him?"

Jane looks horrified. "We're her _family_."

"George is her family now."

Silence hangs in the room as Mary's statement is digested.

"She might as well be dead," mutters Kit, before she gets up and leaves the room.

"Kit!" calls Jane after her.

"From what Lizzie says, it's the truth."

"Mary…please…" Jane climbs off the bed and goes after Kit, leaving Lizzie and Mary alone.

"It is, isn't it?" asks Mary, looking up from the page before her.

Lizzie shrugs. "I don't know. If by some miracle George can be convinced that it's not us_ or _him then they might stick around for holidays or something. Lydia certainly doesn't hate us."

Mary scoffs. "What great optimism," she says, and unfolds her legs from beneath her.

"Well she doesn't."

Mary pauses on her way out of the doorway. "Then maybe it's that I hate her," she says and walks out leaving Lizzie alone.

* * *

My early morning coffee on the railing outside the house has become impossibly precious to me. With all the confusion in the house, Mom not knowing whether to be thrilled or horrified, Dad away, inevitably about to find them and try to break them up, Kit miserable, Mary furious and Jane confused when she's here and impossibly upbeat via email, these silent, delightfully caffeinous moments are vital for my survival.

"Hi," says a voice, breaking my solitude, and I turn to find Charlotte standing there.

"What are you doing here?"

She smiles. "I heard you needed a helping hand."

"Oh haven't you heard? The house is full of them." I never knew I could sound so bitter.

"A friend then," she says softly, and climbs the rail beside me. The ring on her fourth finger glitters, taunting me.

"How's Bill?" I ask.

"Fine," she says.

"Really?" I say, sounding, if possible, more bitter. "He's not…" I take a deep breath and look across at her expression of resilient patience. "Sorry," I say slowly. "I'm in a horrible mood."

"It's fair enough," she says, and steals my coffee for a sip. "How's it going?" she asks a minute later, handing my mug back to me.

I shrug. "Dad's still trying to find them, Mom has decided for the moment that it is a despicable and shameful to destroy the sanctity of marriage like this, Mary has decided that she hates Lydia, and Kit cries herself to sleep."

Charlotte gives me a hard look, then scoots up along the rail and puts her arms round me. "Well," she says, her voice muffled by my hair, "normal then."

I laugh and edge out an arm to return Charley's hug. "Something like that."

"Kit'll be all right."

I nod slowly. I know she will too.

"Miri's coming over in a bit with a massive stack of movies and cake and stuff."

"She doesn't have to."

Charley grins. "She wants to. Don Zamzow hasn't noticed her at all these last few weeks."

"Miri and Don? Really?"

She rolls her eyes. "She likes him, but you know how he is. So shy as you can't believe, but I reckon it'll work out. As it will," she adds, "with you."

I shrug in return. "Maybe."

"Your Dad's still trying to find them?"

"Yeah," I say. "He's staying with Phil and Aliz, but I think he's going to come home soon."

"You told him you thought it was a bad idea?"

I shrug again. My shoulders are starting to ache after these last few days. "I told him that they could stay away as long as they wanted to and not be found by us. He knows that he can't call any of the law in to help. Not without some massive case which we can't afford. And I told him that there was more chance of them turning up if they thought that we'd be cool with it."

"Has your Dad ever been _cool_ with anything?"

I smile slightly. "Certainly not when it comes to any of us."

We sit in silence for a few minutes, Charley stealing my coffee again then giving it back, as we watch the sun rise over the fields.

"And what's up with you?" she asks eventually.

Damn her and her ninja skills. "It's nothing really," I begin, but she raises her eyebrows and smiles a little, and I feel like hitting her. "Fine," I say. "How would you feel if Bill had a sister who was married to the one person in the world that you could not stand?"

"How would I feel if Bill's brother-in-law was Ryan Seacrest?"

"Fine. Seacrest, except he hasn't just assaulted you via the television. Imagine he has done something to potential ruin your life."

"He has," she says. "He continues to ruin my favourite shows."

"Charley…"

She grins. "Fine. OK. I get your scenario."

I take a deep breath. "How would you feel about Bill, in that case? Always connected to the man you hate. Always stuck with him. What would you do?"

She puts her head on one side, clearly thinks about digging deeper, then thankfully gives it up. "I don't know," she says finally. "I mean, part of me would find him being family hard, you know? You can't really take sides once you're all related. You're just stuck with each other. So maybe it would make me re-evaluate my relationship, but then, you know, I think I'd just be more determined. I guess in the long run, being with Bill is more important than being a bit put out every now and then because of family because, you know, that's just how family is anyway. Does that make sense?"

I nod. "Just about."

"Right, well, what do you know? Bill has a secret, Seacrest loving sister?"

I smile. "No."

"So who is it?"

Damn. I'd hoped that she would be tactful and let me deal with this on my own and…who am I kidding?

"Will."

She frowns. "Will Darcy _Will_?"

"Yeah."

"Who does he have a problem with? Or is it you? Sorry, your analogy has confused me…"

"Wickham. Will and George have a long and messy past."

Charley sits silent for a minute. "So, George and Lydia, and you and Will?"

It's not like we're a couple. I can't put us together like that, but even so, it has been bugging me ever since I found out. What would he want with me now? Why would he want to ever be with…

"You and Will? Really?" Charley buts in, mystified. "But I thought you hated him."

"I did," I say, miserably, "kind of, but it all has just changed. I don't know…"

"You and Will," she breathes. "He still loves you?"

I sigh. "I don't know."

"Do you love him?"

"I don't know."

"Wow," she breathes again, and silence falls. Finally after a few quiet minutes, she turns back to me. "I'll tell Miri to bring loads of cake."

"And _While You Were Sleeping._ I need Bill Pullman and his truck and boots right now."

She grins and puts her arms back round me. "OK," she says, kisses me somewhere on the forehead, then climbs off down the rail.

* * *

**Chapter 30! Huzzah! We're getting there peeps. **

**Fanfiction and I are having a little scuffle right now, so I apologise if the formatting is off. **

**Thank you, yet again, for the unending support and cheerleading. You guys are extraordinary.**

**Also, thank you to my sister (who I tried to thank yesterday, and Fanfiction clearly decided that she didn't deserve it), who has been consistently brilliant, an excellent editor, and unfailingly encouraging. You are, and always will be the Annette Crosbie to my Gemma Craven. **


	31. Spilling and pudding

**Spilling and pudding**

Fr: charlottelu at warnerstantonandlane

To: ebethbnet

Subject: Am I nice, or am I nice?

You owe me big time. I was supposed to be getting my hair done this afternoon, but Bill said something about how, as a family friend, he thought he should come and console with you and your family, and while I love the guy, I realise that you, somewhat, don't, so I put him off in the only way I know how.

You are both welcome.

Now my hair _really_ needs doing.

Stop throwing up.

I hope you enjoyed Bill Pullman and his boots.

Love you lots honey,

Charley xxx

* * *

Fr: ebethbnet

To: jfb at zimmerman

Subject: The skinny

Dad came home today. At last. Uncle Phil's still trying to find them, but I think that for the moment, we're done.

Mom is, not surprisingly, horrified. She wants Dad to go back, but I think he's done too. He told us that we're not moving away until we're married, and that any men have to ask permission not just for marriage but for dating. Kit, already in a delicate state, burst into tears. Mary is completely fed up with it. She had moved through grieving and onto righteous anger just as you left. Righteous anger appears to be quite a long stage. I have to admit, I'm done too. Lydia has screwed us all over.

Hope you're all right.

Miss you.

L xxx

* * *

Fr: jfb at zimmerman

To: ebethbnet

Subject: Honey

I know it's hard, but it really isn't that bad. No one cares these days if your sister is sleeping around, or, as in our case, ran off and married an idiot. It's not like we're tainted by association or something. Please give Kit a big kiss for me. And tell Mary to snap out of it. In fact, I'll email them. But do it too.

However, I'm done too. So. Newsround:

1) Did you hear? Josh and Donna Lyman had another girl. Harriet Abigail. Pretty, right?

2) I'm exhausted. However, I am also loving my job, so all is well.

3) Charlie is back in the country.

Well that's all.

Love you.

J xxx

* * *

Fr: ebethbnet

To: jfb at zimmerman

Subject: WHAT?

I'm sorry. You slip in:

3) Charlie is back in the country.

and expect me to do what exactly? Ignore it? Well. Has he called you? Are you talking again? Am I going to have more tearful phone calls like that embarrassing one that we decided to talk no more about just after the convention? Spill Bennet.

L x

PS. Despite the depraved acts that Charley did to stop him from coming to see us, Bill Collins emailed me to condole about my family's unfortunate situation. It would appear that while I am happy to slander her until the cows come home, as soon as he started in on the way she has ruined the institution of marriage for the rest of society, my big sisterly side came out. He's very lucky that he wasn't here, or else I might have whacked him with a pitchfork. As it was, I just deleted the damn thing.

* * *

Fr: jfb at zimmerman

To: ebethbnet

Subject: re: WHAT?

Fine. He is back according to Sam Seaborn, in whose department (VP and all that) I have been working recently and so have spent some time on planes and such with him. Let me tell you, with a little alcohol in him, he'll tell you anything. Allegedly Josh Lyman is worse. This is how I know about Josh having another girl. Anyway. He said that Charlie's back in the country and that he thinks that Zimmerman's team could use him. Also, he wants Will. Apparently Matt Fox is making this campaign stale beyond stale, and there's no one else to take it, other than Will. So. Interesting. We'll have to see.

Spilled enough for you Bennet?

Love you.

J x

PS. He emailed me too. I may just have accidentally signed him up for the Barbie website daily updates. And Martha Stewart's cookie of the day. And the joke-a-day. And a few others. I'd imagine, with that much to clear from his inbox daily, he may no longer have time to write such utter crap to us.

* * *

Fr: ebethbnet

To: jfb at zimmerman

Subject: re: WHAT?

Good spillage. And interesting facts. Will could be fantastic for Zimmerman, but I think that he's still out of the country. He was certainly enjoying being at home with his sister.

You probably shouldn't let those little Josh/Sam/alcohol nuggets get out to much. We don't want state secrets being weaselled out of them just with Tequila. It should at least take a heist. And Nicholas Cage. And…well I watched _National Treasure 2_ again the other day, and I'm back wanting to be a treasure hunter. So. We'll see about that too.

Love you dude. Glad the job's so good.

L xx

PS. I'm so proud.

* * *

Fr: richardfitzwilliam at dbd

To: williamdarcy at charlesbingley

Subject: AWOL

Dude. Where are you? I called the house in Wales, firmly expecting at least someone to be there, and instead I end up having a long conversation with Mrs R about my children. Now, you know I love my children. I find them endlessly fascinating. But Will, you were supposed to be there. RESTING. Jules is angry and is threatening to not make Chocolate Puddle Pudding next time you come. It's _that_ serious. Even George appears to be missing and this time of year she's always there. So. What gives? Tell Uncle Richie and we'll all be friends again. Otherwise it will not be so good for you.

With threats,

Rich (J,S,L&B too)

* * *

Fr: williamdarcy at charlesbingley

To: richardfitzwilliam at dbd

Subject: Chill

I'm back in the country, attending to some business, and George has come too. That's all. Keep your pants on. Tell Jules that I am well and truly rested, and that to withhold her puddle pudding might be a human rights violation. I'll look it up.

We'll come and see you guys soon. I want a go on that Playmobil castle I bought for Sam.

With placation,

Will (& G)

* * *

Fr: richardfitzwilliam at dbd

To: williamdarcy at charlesbingley

Subject: Chilled

Fine. Pudding is being crafted as we speak. Or type. Anyway. Sam is entirely jazzed about the prospect of playing Castles with you. The girls aren't very good at carrying a story yet. They just suck on the knights and wedge the dragon down the back of the chairs. Jules included.

R

PS- don't tell her. For the love of all that's holy. Her puddle pudding is my elixir of life.

* * *

Fr: williamdarcy at charlesbingley

To: deathtothewiggles

Subject: Hey

Just thought you should know that your husband has been mocking you via the medium of email, then in fearing that you would not make puddle pudding for him, begged me not to tell you. That would, in my book, constitute lying. Also, I like ratting on him.

Make the pudding for us instead. We don't mock you. At least, not to your face.

Will and George x

* * *

Fr: deathtothewiggles

To: williamdarcy at charlesbingley

Subject: Rat

Thanks dude. Am withholding pudding. And all that pudding could be a euphemism for.

We'll see you soon or pudding (literal) will be withheld. I'll make fruit salad or some such nonsense.

Love to George.

Jules xx

PS- look up Lizzie while you're in the country. I realise things didn't end like you wanted to last time, but it's been, what, eight months? She was really great. Think about it. J x

* * *

**My computer acted like a nutcase yesterday, so it put the kybosh on the whole post-a-day thing. We may return to the old faithful post-every-other-day. Or the even more reliable post-when-my-computer-complies thing. We shall see. **

**As to those of you who are very sweetly pre-emptively mourning the end of this story, do not fear. You may have noticed that I have assiduously ignored every question about how far we have to go. That is because I feared that you'd all stop reading when you realised how long this was. However, now you appear to be getting blue, I can tell you that there are a good few chapters still to come. And an epilogue. Or two. They do, after all, still have a fair few things to sort out. Including an election (which I keep reading out the corner of my eye as erection. Unfortunate.).**

**Thanks, yet again. You people are, to me, protocoligorically correct. **


	32. VRUSP

**As ever, thank you. **

* * *

**Vocal Reverberation Under Spinal Pressure**

"So," says Dad, pouring himself a cup of coffee whilst the rest of us eat in uncomfortable silence. "I heard from Phil today."

"Has he given up on our girl too?" asks Mom, tearfully. She's still furious with Dad for coming home. Furious, and slightly thankful, as she had become convinced that whilst in Nevada, he would somehow get involved with a gang and end up dead. I don't know.

"No," he says, sitting heavily in his chair. "He has found her."

We all stare at him. "What?" shrieks Mom, knocking over her plate, sending toast crusts into the mouths of our ever waiting dogs. "They're coming home?"

I exchange glances with Kit and Mary. The likelihood of their coming home is what? Slim to none?

Dad rubs his face with a weary hand. "Not exactly," he says, and Mom all but wails. "They are moving to a house in Huntsville."

"Alabama?" asks Mom, incredulous. "Why would they move there? They had much better be closer to here, then when Lydia starts having babies, I can help her out."

"That is if she hasn't already," mutters Mary.

Thankfully, neither Mom or Dad hear her.

"It's barely an hour and a half to get there," I say.

"And she's already there for college," puts in Kit.

"It'll be much more convenient for them," says Dad, quietly.

I think we are all (save Mom) agreed, that Lydia in another state is probably a good thing.

"Well then I guess that's…that's great," says Mom, and her face splits into an almighty smile. "My little girl," she says, "an hour an a half away, married, finishing college…" She shakes her head slowly, as if she doesn't quite believe that her dream has come true. Kit looks confused. Mary looks like thunder. Turns out that's an ability she shares with Will. Dad looks…I don't know. He looks old suddenly. He stands up, drains his coffee, and walks heavily out into the hall. The study door closes with its familiar creak and Mom starts talking champagne and onesies.

* * *

"_They're coming home? Just like that?"_

I stand on the porch, coffee in one hand, my cell in the other. "I know, right? He's missing something out."

"_Yeah, and if he's not telling you, phone Aliz."_

Huh. She is an evil genius after all. "Hey, good plan," I say, somewhat dumbfounded.

Jane smirks. I can hear it. _"I'm full of 'em."_

"Full of it? Yeah…I'll say."

The sound erupts of a raspberry being blown down the line. _"I've got to go," _she says, _"but call if you get any more out of him."_

"I will," I say, and we say goodbye. I embrace another brief moment of quiet, trying to block out the sound of Mom on the house phone with her sister Adelaide, trying and failing not to sound too smug that her youngest daughter is married and has a house and is going to be an hour and a half away. Aunt Addie's only child, Derrick, is gay, single and lives in China. We suspect he moved there largely to put as much world between him and his mother as possible. Either way, Mom's smugness is out of this world.

* * *

"Daddy?" Lizzie asks, leaning round the study door.

"Sweet pea?" Rex replies, looking up wearily from the computer screen in front of him.

She sits down on the window seat and frowns. "Do you think it was Uncle Phil who laid out the money for the house, and not George?"

He sighs. "I think there is a very good chance of that," he says. "George does not appear to be much of a one for paying his bills."

She frowns further. "You found where they had been?"

He smiles very slightly. "And had to all but lie to stop them from hobbling me with several bills for unpaid rooms."

"But then surely there are now people after them for their money?"

He looks back at the screen, sighs and hits _print_. The old printer whirrs into life, and chugs out a single page copy of an email. "Read it," he says, and Lizzie picks it up.

Frowning further she looks up at intervals with an incredulous expression. "His bills have been paid?" she says eventually, reaching the bottom of the page. "Uncle Phil paid their bills? How much was it?"

"Enough."

She begins to worry the corner of the page between her fingers. "And you think he paid for that, _and_ the house?"

Rex leans back and says nothing.

"Maybe they're going to rent."

He sighs. "It says there they've bought a house."

She glances back at the email and grimaces. "How much?" she asks.

Rex rubs his chin, sits up again and clicks through the windows he has up on the computer screen. "I reckon it can't be much less than fifty thousand at the very least."

Lizzie's jaw drops. "Holy…"

"Yeah."

"They've got five kids! Aksel's going to Yale! How can they possibly afford it?"

Rex leans back again, both hands rubbing his face. "I don't know," comes his muffled reply, "and come to that, how in the hell can I ever repay him?"

* * *

"Hi! It's Lydia. Or should I say, Mrs Wickham! It sounds stupid…anyway. Uncle Phil said he'd get in contact with you as we were still honeymooning, but the long and short of it is, we have a house! In Huntsville, so don't worry- I'm going back to college when it starts again. George is one hundred and fifty percent behind me and I'm going to finish college and then I don't know, maybe become a fashion designer. Or an actress. George says I could do either. He is _so_ supportive. Anyway. We'll be home in a few days, and then you all have to come and see our new house. It's ours from Saturday. Crazy, right? We might swing by you first though. You know, as it's quite a way from Nevada across, but we'll see. We might just want to get home and move into our love nest. OK, so I'll be in contact soon. Bye!"

"They're not coming here" says Dad. "No way am I having him under my roof."

"I second that," says Mary, eyeing the answer-machine with distaste.

"Nonsense" says Mom. And that is, unfortunately, that.


	33. Human debris

**Human debris**

"Lizzie, you're here? I thought you'd still be in England."

I contemplate wanging Lydia round the head with a shovel, but decide that it's probably not worth it. George hovers behind her, pleasingly nervous.

"Course you didn't Lyds," he says. "We saw Phil and Aliz just the other day."

"Oh right," she says, brushes it off, and turns to talk to someone else. George looks awkward. Well, good.

"Oh the wedding," Lydia gushes to Mom. "You all should have been there, but then I guess that's not the point of eloping, is it!"

Mom giggles. Everyone else looks sour. Even Jane. I didn't think it was possible. She covers it up fast though. "Where was it?" she asks, clearly making an effort. More than the rest of us anyway.

"Treasure Island," says Lydia, starry eyed, and the sour looks miraculously disappear. Now I don't want to judge or be accused of snobbery, but even the name _Treasure Island_ makes me laugh. My first thought is not class and beauty. It is Miss Piggy and Kermit. It is Tim Curry. It is scurvy pirates and blood and hangings. It is not weddings. Unfortunately, clearly from Jane, Mary, Kit _and_ Dad's expressions, the same thought has occurred to them.

"Really?" asks Jane, her voice shaking. Dad whips his head round, attempting to not catch anyone's eye.

"Yeah, it was beautiful," says Lydia, oblivious. She gazes up at George adoringly and, to his credit, his smiles back, maybe with almost as much adoration in his eyes. Maybe.

Mary, who until now refused to even look at them, is now smiling widely. I can almost hear her singing _Shiver My Timbers _to herself. Kit, also, is attempting not to laugh. Somehow, _Treasure Island _has saved the moment. It may have even saved George. Mom looks round with blank astonishment at the circle of smiling faces. Even in her acute pleasure, she had realised the mutiny bubbling away. She was preparing to bat down comment after comment. Frankly, it may still be necessary, but right now, she beams and hustles us all into the house. "Well," she says. "Let's go in and have some tea." We enter the house and sit round, a little awkwardly, in the living room, half of us still trying not to look at each other. Mom brings through the water in a jug, and pours it onto the bags in the mugs, and in the middle of all this, I think of Will and Mrs R, and her bone china. Somehow, it makes me feel better. I hold onto it, and smile at George.

* * *

"It's funny how life turns out."

Lizzie turns and looks at me, raising an eyebrow. So far, in the last ten minutes of sitting on this damn fence, she has managed to say nothing, barely acknowledging my existence. "Funny?" she says, and I kind of wish I hadn't said anything at all.

"You know…weird."

She raises her eyebrows again and turns back, hands firmly laced around her coffee. "Weird," she repeats.

"Yeah, you know, how I only met you a year ago and now. Here we are."

"In-laws," she says, somewhat icily.

"Yeah. In-laws."

She kicks her booted heels against the fence and stares firmly out over the fields.

"Look," I begin, "I'm sorry it turned out this way."

She turns to me. "How long has it been going on?" she asks, straight out of the blue. "I mean, I was thinking about it last night, and I realise, it probably wasn't just this past month, was it?"

Damn. Just when things looked like they were going my way. "No," I say, eventually.

"How long?" she asks again, fire in her eyes.

"A while?"

She fixes me with a look that possibly could melt steel. "Was it before you "_broke up with Mary King for me"_?" she asks, aggressively slicing the air in quotation marks.

Damn again. "You know, it does no good to rake up…"

She shakes her head slowly and looks away. "You made me look stupid," she mutters, kicking the rails with vehemence.

"It was just, like, a few times we bumped into each other and, you know…"

"Insatiable lust?" she asks dryly.

This is getting us nowhere. We sit in silence for a few minutes. For the girl who never liked uneasy silences, she is letting this one drag. I find myself raking up conversation points. "Phil and Aliz said you saw Will in Wales."

She sighs heavily. "Yeah," she says.

"And you met Georgiana?"

She gives me a shrewd look. Double damn. "Yes," she says, eventually, almost as if she's enjoying the moment. Like a cat playing with a very stupid mouse.

"You liked her?"

"Yes," she says again. "Very much."

"Well…good. I had heard that she was just like Will these days!"

"She is."

The conversation withers and dies. She drains her mug and sighs, just as the back door clatters open and Lydia walks out.

"What are you doing out here?" she calls.

"Just talking," says Lizzie, and she swings off the fence and walks back to the house. "He's all yours," she says, and slams the door.

* * *

"Welcome!" chirps Lydia, throwing open the door, and stepping aside. "Well come on in!"

Mom bustles in, hands full of grocery bags and she exclaims over everything. I mean _everything._ It's like some kind of love in. Kit follows too, torn between interest and envy. She and Lydia are back pretty much as they were before. They irritate each other, they tear the other to pieces to the rest of us, they make out like the other knows nothing about anything, but really, truly, they adore each other. It's sickening really, but I'm pleased for Kit. Mary, however, has even less love for Lydia than she did a few days ago. Lydia said something about how she and George would need 'privacy' whilst they were home. Mom had giggled, and said in that case, they had better have Mary's room, over the bunkhouse. Mary had turned purple just at the thought that a) she was being turned out of her room and b) Lydia and George would be at it in her bed, but Mom didn't notice and bustled off to find clean bedding. Mary shared my bed instead, and spent the whole night muttering. Lydia then made it a little worse the next morning, by mocking her art, saying it gave her nightmares. Mary said something along the lines of 'well at least you were _trying_ to sleep', interlaced with a few curse words, then stormed off. Understandably, she decided to not come on this little family excursion. I, however, did not feel such a luxury. I am here as moral support for Dad. We both slope into the house, and perch on the edge of kitchen chairs. George has the grace to look equally awkward. We've barely talked since that Saturday morning conversation. I guess that we'll sort things out between us over time, but right now, it's all a little strained.

"Good ride?" he asks, and Dad nods stiffly.

"Not bad," he says, and then silence falls again.

"Honey, you were going for take-out?" calls Lydia from the other room, and George gets up.

"Duty calls," he says, smiling slightly, and walks out.

Dad and I exchange glances and he sighs. "Never thought this would happen," he says, slowly.

"No. Me either."

He gives me a shrewd look. "Yeah, you did. You warned me, and I ignored you."

"Dad…"I begin, but he waves it off.

"I'm sorry," he says, and pats my hand. "I should have listened."

I shrug. "You were right though. There was nothing you could have done."

He raises his eyebrows and smiles, resigned. "Well, isn't that a comforting thought? I have one daughter who I cannot control, and one who is far and away smarter than me."

"Dad…" I try again, but he shakes his head.

"I'll get over it," he says slowly. "I guess I've never been able to control any of you."

I smile.

"You're all as stubborn as old mules."

He begins to laugh and squeezes my hand. Despite the 'old mules', I join in.

* * *

As soon as George returns with the food, Lydia ushers us out to the back out the house, past a couple of bedrooms and a bathroom. I hate to admit it, but the house is nice. Sure, it's small, but it is so much better than I thought it would be. I was prepared for something mouldering, infested with rats and cockroaches. This is clean and tidy. It looks like an advert for IKEA.

"So, what do you think?" Lydia asks me as we step out into the back yard, onto a deck. "I've done all right."

"The house is nice," I say, carefully avoiding her smug expression.

"Yeah," she says, looking back at it. "I mean, I would have liked to be in Tennessee, but it's not so bad here."

"Sure," I say, and lay out the napkins for her. "Why didn't you buy a place in Tennessee?"

She shrugs. "He thought it was a better idea if we were near college so I could finish. I mean, I wasn't that jazzed, you know, but Will said it was important and he'd only do it on the understanding that I graduated."

Wait. What? "Will? I thought Uncle Phil bought the house."

"No," she says, redoing the napkins I've already placed out. "Will Darcy turned up and said it was all on him." She rolls her eyes. "With certain provisos" she adds.

I feel entirely breathless. "What?"

"Yeah," she says. "I…oh crap." She grins guiltily. "I was supposed to say anything." She shrugs. "Oh well," she says, and smiles up at her husband as he appears with plates of pizza.

Did she just say…? For the second time in only a little over a week, I feel like I've been whacked in the stomach with a baseball bat. And, simultaneously wanged over the head with a shovel. I need to call Aliz.

* * *

**So Lydia did turn up. Sorry to all of you who didn't want to see her. I have attempted placation with a few extra hundred words, and references to the Muppets. And if that wasn't enough, Tim Curry. That dude really should be in more films. Any film is better with Tim Curry. FACT. **


	34. You look cute in your pyjamas

**You look cute in your pyjamas**

I knew she would find out. I don't know how, but I knew. Ever since Will said that he would take full responsibility. Ever since he said that he didn't want anyone to feel indebted to him. Even though they are. I suspect that boy would do a lot more if it was needed though. The way he looked at Lizzie in Wales. The was he looks when you mention her name. He is all in, and yet would rather she didn't know.

"_I just don't understand," _she says down the line. _"I mean, I thought we'd never see them again. I thought that George would run a hundred miles in the opposite direction, and yet they turn up and they buy a house, like, an hour and a half away from here, and then they're all happy and family…you know. And now she says that it was Will? I really thought…"_ She trails off and sighs. _"I don't know what I thought,"_ she says eventually.

"I know you didn't think much of him, but you didn't have such low expectations, did you?"

"_Yes? I don't know. I just had convinced myself of all the tragedy. I mean, I knew he had run at the first signs of trouble with someone else, and as soon as I put up any barriers, he disappeared." _She pauses. _"Maybe he was always going to turn up. Maybe it was always going to be all right…"_

"Well, yes sweetheart. It doesn't do to linger over these doubts and…"

"_But what about Will?" _she butts in. _"I thought it was you and Phil?"_

"Look," I say, carefully, "Will came to see us just a few nights after we got back. He said that he had found them out and had talked to George, and sorted it out. He was going to buy a house for them in Huntsville, see that Lydia graduated, and that George had work, but he didn't want to take the credit."

"_He lied?" _she asks, with almost comedic incredulity.

I almost laugh. It is, however, not the time. "He didn't want you or any of your family to feel indebted to him. He didn't want anything in return and…"

"_But we just thought we were indebted to you instead! We were worried about how you could have coped doing it what with Aksel at Yale, and all the other kids to consider."_

"He thought you wouldn't accept it coming from him. You took it while you thought it came from family."

She is silent again for a moment. _"I still don't get it."_

"He wanted to help, and he had the resources."

"_But how did he even get them to come back? Or even find them in the first place?"_

"He said something about the benefits of being good friends with the White House Chief of Staff, and as for them coming back, I'd guess it had something to do with his paying debts and clearing the way."

She is silent again for a moment. _"I guess it would have been hard for George to turn up having whisked Lyds away, and then reveal he had nothing to offer."_

"I don't think he's a monster, you know," I say, somewhat carefully. "I think he's impetuous and that he doesn't think. That he's proud and hates to be judged, and maybe these things have made him act foolishly in the past. But you know what?"

"_What?" _she asks in a small voice.

"I think he loves Lydia, and will make a good go of this."

She is quiet, until she takes a deep breath. _"OK," _she says.

"And if not, you appear to have friends who know the CIA, so, you know…"

I can hear the smile in her voice. _"Yeah,"_ she says. _"OK. Thank you."_

"We'll talk soon, all right?"

"_OK. Love to the rabble."_

"And to yours. Love you sweetheart."

* * *

After two weeks of quick decisions, big decisions, and a whole shed load of un-dealt-with jet lag, Will had thought that he had earned a lie in. With Georgiana staying just for the next few days, he had thought that she could field all calls, answer the door, bring in the papers. He had thought that for once, just once, he could get some rest. He thought it but he was wrong.

"Will?" George calls through the door, interspersed with knocking. "Will?" More knocking. "Will?"

"You sound like that guy on _Big Bang _Thingy_._"

"_Theory,_" she says, leaning round the door. "You sleep with some kind of clothes on, right?"

Her question is answered as Will levers himself out of bed, clad in pyjama bottoms.

"Good. There's someone here for you."

He had disappeared into the bathroom, but he reappears in the doorway, toothbrush wedged in mouth. "You couldn't tell them to come back later?" he asks, marginally avoiding spitting toothpaste at her.

"It's important."

He rolls his eyes, but disappears back inside the bathroom. "It had better be," he growls, post spitting. Running a hand over his wild bed hair, he lifts the old towelling robe from the door, pulls it around his shoulders, then heads for the stairs.

"Ah…you might want to wear a little…um…"

He raises an eyebrow. "It's before seven. Anyone calling this early is lucky to even see me awake, let alone standing up." He turns down the stairs saying "tell them I'll be there in a sec. I need coffee right now."

"But…" George gives up and follows him down, disappearing into the front room.

The kitchen tiles are cold under his feet, and Will resorts to waiting for the coffee to make itself, sitting on the cabinet, rubbing his eyes. Finally, it drips enough in for a mugful, and he pours it out, picks it up and pads across the icy floor to the front room.

"Will Darcy," says a low voice from the corner of the couch. "I hadn't realised that it's casual dress day."

Only just managing not to drop his full, steaming mug of coffee, Will swallows the rising feeling of embarrassment and horror, and holds out a hand in greeting to the man he used to dream of meeting. "Mr Fox," he says. "I hadn't realised it was you."

Matt Fox laughs and shakes the proffered hand. "Otherwise you might have put some more clothes on, right?"

Will stops himself from groaning, sits down opposite Matt and takes a scalding sip of coffee. "Yes sir," he says. "Would you like anything to drink or eat or…"

"Son, I've clearly disturbed your sister from her practice of some kind and woken you up. I'm absolutely fine."

Will holds up his mug. "There's clearly already coffee on. It's no trouble."

He smiles. "Coffee, straight up, would be great."

"I'm on it," says George, quietly, and she slips out of the room..

Will smiles a little, ruefully, tugging his robe closed. "I'm sorry I wasn't really prepared to…uh…"

"It's quite all right," he says, grinning. "Why should you keep such unsociable hours if you're not working? You're not working," he adds, "are you?"

"Uh, no sir. I took a few weeks off after the convention to get things sorted out."

He smiles again. "Well, you've been mighty hard to find. Especially," he adds with a raised eyebrow, "since you have been eluding all calls and emails."

Will grimaces a little. "I was getting somewhat inundated for a few weeks, so I've only been replying to what is absolutely necessary."

"You didn't think that your party's presidential campaign was _absolutely necessary_?"

Will says nothing for a second, and is saved by the re-emergence of George with coffee and a plate of Danishes. 'Thank you' he mouths to her, and she winks, carefully so that Matt won't see, yet not very helpfully and certainly a little lasciviously, before disappearing from the room.

Choosing to ignore the silence of moments before, Matt continues, saying, "I had heard you were back in the country these past few weeks."

He shifts and rolls his mug between his palms, before finally saying, "I had some personal business to deal with. Just things that needed doing, but it's pretty much sorted now…"

"Good. So are you ready to get back to work?"

"On the campaign?"

Matt grins and leans forward. "We've got a lot to do, and not a lot of time, and we need you."

Will starts. "For what?"

"To replace me."

* * *

I had foolishly thought that there would be no one looking more haggard and sleep deprived than me. Except maybe Donna. After all, I may be working late, then waking to two AM screams for feeds, but she is looking after the girls all day, all evening, then wakes when I get in late, then gets up to feed. So maybe she has the right to look worse, although I'm not convinced. However, Will Darcy, who has, let's face it, been on _holiday_ for several weeks, has no right to look that bad. None whatsoever.

"Did you get run over by a truck?"

"Josh!" Donna whacks my arm. It used to be playful, scolding taps. Well, right at the beginning. From about two months into meeting me she stopped worrying too much. Now, she could take out Iron Man.

"OW!...Well he looks like he did…"

"Come in, Will," she says, and drags him through from the hall to the kitchen. "Have a seat." She manhandles him to the kitchen table and onto the bench. "Coffee?" she asks, and doesn't wait for a reply before switching the machine back on.

"Seriously, Donna…I'm not _that _bad," he says. "How are you doing, new baby and all?"

She turns round and leans against the counter top. "Oh we're all right," she says, somewhat underplaying our distinct lack of sleep. "It would be easier if Claudie had reacted better."

He smiles. "Not enjoying being a big sister?"

"_Not enjoying_ would be the understatement of the century."

Donna glances across at me and rolls her eyes. "It's not like she's drawing battle lines. She's just not very sure about Harriet yet."

Will nods slowly. "Yeah, I remember Sam reacting like that with Lucy and Bella. It should pass. Until then, however," he says, "I thought this might help." He pulls out from his jacket pocket a soft, knitted bunny, a smaller version, I'm sure, of one he gave Claudie when she was born.

"Oh, Will" says Donna, and takes the bunny from him. "You didn't have to do that."

He shrugs. "It's not much."

Donna starts at the sound of the baby monitor, and heads off up the stairs, bunny in hand. I pour Will his coffee and say, "so, what did you want?"

Will leans back against the wall and rubs a hand across his neck. "Matt Fox visited me this morning."

"Are you going to take the job?"

He frowns. "You knew?"

I attempt to not look too smug. "I recommended you."

"Josh…"

"And then allegedly Sam jumped in there and pretty much did a Samba in your honour."

Will looks at me steadily, and yet a little nonplussed. "A Samba?"

"Yep, and then Jane…Bennet, is it, also weighed in. She was on the Bingley campaign, right?"

"Yes," he says, wearily.

"Oh, and then Bingley said that if you were in charge he would definitely come on board."

"Charles?"

"Sam is leading the campaign for him to be Director of Communications."

Will blinks heavily, takes a sip of coffee and rubs his neck again. Eventually he says, "is this really happening? Matt Fox, my idol of political campaigning, is stepping down, so that I can replace him?"

I shrug. "He's brilliant, and that's why he knows when there is someone better. You're taking on the youngest Republican candidate in years, with another Jed Bartlett. Zimmerman may be the greatest political thinker and speaker that we've seen in a long time, but if Jane Braun is half the campaigner that I think she is, she'll skew everything to show how young and vigorous O'Connell is. Zimmerman needs to be the wise, experienced, mature, brilliant centre that he is to a vibrant and youthful campaign. I mean, Sam's already carrying a lot of that as his running mate, but it won't hurt to have the chief of staff as a thirty-something brilliant political mind."

Will's gaze has become sceptical. "And how young and vigorous do I look right now, you know, having been hit by a truck?" He leans back against the wall, his head thumping against Claudie's newest drawing of the White House. "Hell," he mutters and reaches up to rub his head.

"You're plenty young and vigorous," I say. "Stop getting your pants in a bunch, and just tell him you'll do it."

"You think?" he asks, slumped against the wall.

At that, Donna comes back in with Harriet curled up and snoozing in her arms, and Claudie, clad in her footsie pyjamas, clutching the bunny and smiling shyly.

"Claudie got woken up by Harriet, so I gave her your present Will. What do you say, sweetheart?"

Claudie scuffs her way to standing next to Will. "Thank you," she says, and squishes the bunny's face onto his leg, before skipping out to the hall.

"I think that was the bunny kissing you," I say, as Donna calls to Claudie to now get back into bed. She turns, and Harriet squirms, unsettled.

"Here," says Donna. "You have a go," and she passes Harriet into Will's arms.

For a few seconds she flails and squirms, but old practiced uncle that he is, he readjusts his hold, and settles back. Slowly, she stills, and curls up her fingers with handfuls of shirt beneath them.

"There," says Donna. "Now I can get on with dinner. You're staying, right?" she asks Will, and he smiles.

"Uh…OK," he says, "please", and looks back down at Harriet's sleeping face.

"See," I say, trying not so sound _too_ triumphantly smug. "He's plenty youthful."

* * *

**Don't get too excited. This does not mean we're going back to post-a-day. I am, however, out all day tomorrow. Therefore, it's a day early. That, and the chapter after the next is one of my favourites ( I know- lame, but true) and I was kind of jazzed at the prospect of getting it posted sooner. So. A bit of Will (and not a moment too soon) and some babies. **

**Thank you all, yet again. Be excellent to each other. **


	35. That brave unbalanced woman

**OK. So I realise some of you are bored/confused, and I'd hate that to stop you from reading. So. **

**Last chapter: **

**-Lizzie phoned her aunt to ask why Will had been involved in getting Lydia and George to come home. It was a purposefully rambling conversation. Lizzie was confused. Her ducks weren't all in a row. Sorry if that threw any of you off.**

**-Will was visited by Matt Fox, Zimmerman's campaign manager, who offered Will his job. **

**-Will then visited Josh Lyman (the present White House Chief of Staff) who talked to him about it. Again, Will was purposefully rambling. He had, after all, spent the last few weeks tracking down George and Lydia, and then was offered the biggest job on his political horizon. **

**I hope that has cleared it up for you, any one who was confused. **

**I know that these last few chapters haven't been exactly action-packed, and a bit slower, but I kind of like it. Lizzie is, to quote **titans123, **a bit of a bum, unintentionally, and is floundering a bit, having lost Will and dealing with her sister and George etc, and life, on the horizon, is a bit beige. So. Whether I did it intentionally, or not, the last few chapters have, in tone, reflected how she is feeling. Therefore, hopefully, as these next few chapters unfold, the colour will return. **

* * *

**That brave unbalanced woman**

Fr: jfb at zimmerman

To: ebethbnt

Subject: So that you won't stay on the farm FOREVER

Hey there.

Charlie just sent me this, and thought you might be interested. I think he heard it from Sam, via C.J. Cregg. Weird, right? Our IDOLS. Emailing us. Well, Charlie. Anyway, I think you should seriously think about it. You could be fabulous.

Love you,

J xx

-Forwarded message-

Fr: cjb at zimmerman

To: jfb at zimmerman

Subjects: Jobs and such

I know I only saw you, what, ten minutes ago, and so emailing may seem a little over the top, but I had totally forgotten something that Sam mentioned this morning. The Hollis Foundation is looking, albeit subtly, for a new head of communications. The last guy was apparently not getting on with everyone else and was not very good, and finally, to everyone's pleasure, quit this weekend. So, they need someone else, and since they were still expanding, there isn't really anyone to move up the ranks and take over. No one good enough anyway. So. C.J. asked Sam if he knew of anyone, and Sam asked me, and I thought of Lizzie. If she's at all interested, tell her to email Sam (sns at zimmerman) and he'll pass her on to C.J. I think it might be exactly what she has been looking for.

That's about it. That and I was right. Binturongs do exist. I did not imagine them.

Love you.

Charlie xxx

-End of message-

* * *

Fr: ebethbnet

To: jfb at zimmerman

Subject: re: So that you won't stay on the farm FOREVER

OK, so:

1) Thank you. I emailed Sam, and he passed me on to C.J. and I nearly died with excitement to have her email me back. I'm sending her some of my work and articles and such, and then we'll go from there. It all sounds very positive though. The Foundation sounds amazing, and worthwhile and…well. Thanks.

2) WHAT THE HELL? YOU AND CHARLIE GOT BACK TOGETHER AND YOU DIDN'T TELL ME? You are in so much trouble young lady. I'm telling Mom.

Love you. Thanks again.

Liz xxx

* * *

"Didn't I tell you it would all work out? Didn't I say that they would end up together."

Ever since I broke it to Mom last night about Jane and Charlie, she has been unbearable.

"Yes Mom," says Mary, on auto-pilot, as she tries to sort out something on her laptop.

"Didn't I say that they would be a great couple? And now, with Lydia married, and Jane sure to be soon…"

"Don't push her," I say, involuntarily. I had a dream last night that Jane told us they were a couple, and then Mom bought her this massive, hideous wedding dress, and Charlie took one look at it, screamed like a little girl, and ran away, into the sunset. I'm not even kidding. Mom turns on me with her best don't-use-that-tone-with-me face on. "I mean", I say, "they've only just got together, and they're so busy on the campaign. We don't want to scare Charlie away with over eagerness."

Mom narrows her eyes, but really, the very thought of scaring away someone as hot and charming as Charlie, terrifies her. She had begun to think that Lydia's elopement to _Treasure Island_ was the only wedding that she'd get in the family. She warned me and Mary and Kit the other night that _plenty of fish in the sea_ was a lie, and that the numbers were fast going down. Again, not even kidding.

"Smooth," murmurs Mary to herself, as Mom turns back to the pancakes. I kick her, accidentally of course, and then get up to find the syrup.

* * *

Fr: jfb at zimmerman

To: ebethbnet

Subject: Damn.

You've already told her, haven't you? Drat you.

Well, fine. We are, and he is perfect, and it's mad busy but we're happy and things are all good. So there. And, just for the snitching, if we get married, your bridesmaids dress is going to be bad. I'm talking catastrophically bad. Shielding eyes and heaving stomachs. That bad. Just so you know.

Love you,

J xxx

* * *

_You never thanked Will._ The thought wangs me round the head in the middle of the night, and I wake up, wide awake. With everything that has happened in the last month, I kind of pushed it all out of my mind, reasonably purposefully. I mean, I couldn't quite reconcile myself to Will, all but lying to me, which was so far out on character to seem insane. And then of course, with the job at the Hollis Foundation, and C.J. wanting to meet me, I had to not think about it because, in all honesty, I would otherwise have thought of nothing but him. He had been sneaking into my thoughts at very inconsiderate moments. Mid-way through a _Wizards of Waverley Place_ marathon with Kit. During grooming the horses. Most embarrassingly, half-way through conversations with people. They'd narrow their eyes and bark _"LIZZIE!"_ at me, at which point I'd start and realise that I was replaying conversations I'd had with Will. It was all very unhelpful, so I determinedly expunged him from my thoughts, and got on with preparing for interviews and sifting through old articles, which is, I assume, how I managed to forget to thank him. It is so over due. It's the problem of big things happening, and you having a lull for about five minutes. C.J. called and offered me the job, and I let out a great sigh of relief, emailed Jane, told Mom and Dad, then went to bed, exhausted, and fell asleep, from which, I woke and heard the un-squashable Jiminy Cricket voice in my head saying _you never thanked Will. _Damn that Jiminy. If only he sounded like Viggo Mortenson, I'd listen to him a lot more.

I crawl out of bed, and turn on my laptop. A few things occur to me which, you'd think, in my long, twenty-eight years, would have already implanted themselves in my brain.

1) When you wake up in the middle of the night, and turn on a bright light, it hurts. Do not attempt to stare at it, straight away. Also,

2) It is no longer August. In fact, it is the first week of November. And,

3) The heating is not on in the middle of the night. Oh, and,

4) It is not actually cold enough according to Dad to have turned the heating on much anyway. Just occasionally.

These thoughts together cause me to get up, attempting to blink away the purple splodges that seem to appear each time I blink, and find a sweater and socks. Then I sit down again, eyes in a little less pain, feet a little less icy, and attempt to start writing an email. On the twentieth attempt, I realise that this isn't really going so well. On the twenty-fifth attempt, I start wondering if it isn't a bad plan to try and do this at two AM, and it is on the twenty-ninth try that I realise that the election is, in fact, tomorrow, and the last thing Will needs is an existential essay on the nature of _truth_ which is, in all honesty, what the email has become, when he is probably running on no sleep and one hell of a lot of caffeine. So. I erase the whole email and start again. It works first time, I send it, then go back to sleep, to sleep the sleep of the one who has said thank you. In a way.

* * *

Getting out of bed first thing, I flick on the coffee machine, turn on the television for the news, then turn on my laptop to check new messages. I nearly spit out a mouthful of coffee a few minutes later when I notice one message in particular.

Fr: ebethbnet

To: wifd at zimmerman

Subject: Over due

Will,

I don't know what to say, and I think I should maybe wait to say it in person anyway, but the gist of it is, thank you.

Now go and win this thing. You've done all you can.

Lizzie

I stare at it for what must be about ten minutes, before some reflex causes me to reach over and hit _Print._ It chugs out, I fold it up and then, twenty minutes later as I put on my suit jacket, I slip it into the pocket. I'm not entirely sure why. I just know that I need it today.

* * *

**Thank you to everyone still reading, and everyone who takes the time to review. You're the top.**


	36. Will you succeed?

**Hello readers. It's been quite a ride, hasn't it? We're nearly there. **

**Charlie, for those who didn't quite pick up on it (I only mentioned it in passing), is now the Director of Communications for Zimmerman. **

**And the Hollis Foundation, for those who haven't watched the **_**West Wing**_**, is a charitable foundation set up by a Bill Gatesian entrepreneur, to spend his money on important world-wide work. It has nothing to do with Will. I don't think Lizzie could work **_**for**_** Will. They'd probably end up dissolving the Geneva convention or something. **

**Finally, **katesie**, I hear you. Will has been largely absent recently. He has been skipping around in the background, setting things up in a devious master plan, aka, sorting Lydia out and becoming Zimmerman's campaign manager. He's coming back, honestly. If he's not meaty enough for you here, it'll happen in the next few chapters. **

**There's only so many ways I can say **_**thank you**_**. You guys blow me away. I'm thinking that many of you deserve cabinet positions in the **_**Amazing Adventurers. **_**Seriously.**

* * *

**Will you succeed? Yes you will indeed! (98 and ¾ percent guaranteed)**

"UMBRELLAS!"

I surface from the murky layers of heavy sleep to see the back of Will's head as he marches out of my room, leaving the door open. "Wha…?"

Jane appears in the doorway, walks in, closes it behind her, kicks off her heels, and sits on the end of the bed. "It's raining," she says, and hands me a cup of coffee.

"You're an angel. You know that?" My voice sounds scratchy and sleepy, even to me.

She grins. "I've heard tell. You got some sleep last night?"

"A few hours."

She nods. "It will not surprise you to know that Will has not been to bed."

"He was quite chilled yesterday."

"Bizarrely."

It was bizarre. Will had been some kind of crazy for weeks, working so hard as you wouldn't believe, and then suddenly, yesterday, had this air of calm and composure. It doesn't quite have appeared to last. I take a long drink of coffee and try and run a hand through my hair in the hopes that I don't look too much like a crazy person or some kind of adolescent. "You said it was raining?"

She nods. "Widespread. We heard it was expected, yesterday. The _Zimmerman_ umbrellas were all sent out days ago, and the volunteers will have them."

"And Will didn't know this?"

She grins. "I think he's a little stressed."

"You don't say." She smiles again, and it catches my breath. "How did _you_ sleep?"

"All right," she says. "A few hours."

"And how do you manage to look so good on so little sleep?"

She grins again. "A clear conscience?"

"That must be it." I can't resist leaning in and kissing her. She smiles against me, kisses me back, then slides off the bed.

"See you in a bit."

"You're leaving?"

"Someone has to check that Will doesn't OD on coffee." She puts her shoes back on, leans down and kisses me again, then leaves the room, closing the door behind her. It always feels like the air has gone when she leaves. I roll over onto my stomach and reach for my legal pad on the bedside table. With all the possible outcomes of the election already covered in many drafts of the speech, there is one which so far has eluded me. I click out the pen, and begin.

* * *

Fr: jfb at zimmerman

To: kitbee; ebethbnet; francesca; sexylyddieohlala; mary; rex; charlottelu at warnerstantonandlane; mirilu

Subject: VOTE!

We have been instructed by Will to use these next five minutes to remind you to vote. Not that you really could have forgotten, but at this stage, we're humoring him.

So. Please vote. Preferably in such a way that I keep my job.

Love you all.

Jane x

* * *

"Will? You said you wanted the tracking polls?"

He looks up from his seat on the very top step of the stairs up to the roof. He rubs a hand across his neck, refolds the creased piece of paper he has open in front of him, puts it back in his pocket, and reaches out for the papers that I am holding. "Thank you," he says, hoarsely. He leafs through the pages, frowning over a few things, he brow clearing over others.

"Sam said that it was looking good."

He looks up, and smiles ever so slightly. "It does. We don't want to get ahead of ourselves. Bad weather screws up the whole thing, but you never know." He reaches up and kneads his neck again.

"Are you all right?" I ask.

"I'm fine," he says, rolling his shoulders. "Just a little tired." He pauses, and looks up at me. "How's Lydia getting on?"

I had entirely forgotten that he knew. Lizzie must have filled him in on everything else since it happened. "All right," I say. "I think they're coming up for Thanksgiving."

"That sounds promising."

"Yeah," I say. "I think so. Charlie and I might go down for some of that weekend too."

"Diffuse the tension?"

"Something like that," I say. "Dad and Lizzie and especially Mary still aren't too thrilled about it."

"I can imagine." He smiles again, sighs, then stands up. "The Governor still a picture of calm confidence?"

I find myself smiling. "It's a little unnerving."

He smiles back. "Tell me about it," he says, and we walk back down the stairs together.

* * *

The moment that it happens, I'm not at all ready for it. We weren't expecting to win Florida. We had campaigned there, but in all honesty, not very much. We thought we were getting hammered, and states with closer races were bleeding money, so we had all but pulled out. Zimmerman had made a remark in a press conference about how the choices made over who was decided to be an illegible voter needed to be revisited, and that we couldn't call ourselves truly Democratic if we were not allowing those who deserved a voice, to vote. We thought it was nothing. That was until the press started blowing up stories yesterday that the firm hired to purge the voter rolls in Florida this year were in fact, in O'Connell's pocket. Whether it is true or not, we had a massive landslide early, got the twenty-seven electoral college votes, and damn near reached the two-hundred and seventy needed to win. Five minutes later, O'Connell was on the phone to Zimmerman.

We all think that we know what is being said. Zimmerman has wandered off, muttering into the phone, deliberately not letting us know what is going on. Slowly, the room quietens to a dead hush. Then, the click of a cell snapping shut, and he walks back to us.

"So," he says, teasing it out. "That was O'Connell."

"Yeah?"

Zimmerman smiles ever so slightly. "He has conceded."

The room erupts. I have to sit down. It is all too much. Zimmerman gives his wife a bone crushing hug, lifting her feet off the ground. He kisses his daughter, slaps his son-in-law on the shoulder. His sons pile on him. Then he turns to me.

"Will?" he says. "Are you OK?"

"Slight shock, I think."

He rests a hand on my shoulder and smiles. "It's all down to you."

No, I don't think so. His smile betrays that I may have said that out loud. "I mean…I had a lot to work with."

"We make quite a team."

I stand up, and am immediately swept into a bear hug. "Yes sir," I say, still a little shell-shocked.

He grins, slaps my shoulder, then turns back to other people, to Sam and Ainsley, to all of the other excited people, leaping around, popping corks and finding glasses. I turn to find Charles. To thank him. To maybe, at last, tell him that I think him and Jane is a great idea. Except, of course, he already knows that, because I turn to find him on one knee, in front of Jane Bennet, holding a small box.

* * *

"Didn't I say? But didn't I? I did, I said it, and it's true…"

Mom has taken to wandering around my room as I pack up again, telling me how Jane and Charlie getting engaged was _all_ her. You wouldn't even think that they had anything to do with it. She is over the moon though, and while she drives me to distraction, I'm pleased for Mom that at least one daughter will get married from home, given away by Dad, have all the family round and all that, and not, I don't know, elope alone to Vegas. If only Lydia was in my head. She would be burned right now. Probably.

"Yes Mom," I say, in an increasingly automatic response. "You did."

She sits down, at long last, and smiles, blissfully. "When will you find this happiness Lizzie?" she asks, realising that now she has ticked off Jane, and got Lydia sorted earlier than scheduled, it is now time to move on to daughter #2. "Is there anyone that you have your eye on?"

I manage to not make eye contact, which is the key. We developed a theory long ago that Mom may possibly be a ninja. Given the right moment, she can just about guess anything. I'm not even joking. Dad said that it was bull, until Mom asked where the bonus money from selling one of the horses went, and after one brief glance, she already knew that he had spent it on the tractor rather than her, or us. Dad got this look of fear in his eyes and scurried off to the study, far away from Mom's eyes. Since then, we avoid giving her the opportunity. Come to think of it, it's probably why Lydia was so elusive this last year. Anyway, I can feel her looking at me, and I shrug, nonchalantly.

"Oh, you know…I'm a bit busy now to be thinking about guys."

Mom is silent. Scarily so. Then she sighs. "Don't leave it forever, sugar. I wasn't kidding about the fish and how there aren't plenty. Every day another one gets caught. I mean, take Charlie, for example. That's one more fish…"

"OK," I say. "I'll think about it."

"And don't settle for some second rate man, all right? I mean, you're no Jane, but you could do better than a lot of what's out there."

Even with the 'no Jane' comment, it's nice to hear. For Mom, I mean. "Thanks," I say, and smile at her.

"I mean, you could have had that Billy Collins, easy. You probably still could…"

"They're getting married in a month."

She shrugs. "Well, what I was going to say was, I think you might even be able to do better than him, if you choose wisely."

"Thanks Mom."

She smiles, and stands up. "Well," she says, brushing down her skirt. "I have a wedding to plan," and with that, she walks out.

* * *

"_She said what?"_

It's hard work not laughing down the phone at Jane's horrified tone. "That she had a wedding to plan. You might want to come home and corral it."

Jane groans down the phone.

"Anyway," I say, "Dad _is_ grumbling over how Charlie didn't ask his permission. You guys might want to come home and smooth the waters, sometime. How's Thanksgiving looking for you?"

"_We had talked about maybe coming down, but I know Charlie's family does something big and fancy each year. We might need to go to that."_

"Why not try and drop in on us, sometime over that weekend? You know, eat some pie, Dad can gently threaten Charlie, Mom can get out all her wedding photos…"

Jane groans again. _"I guess," _she says, resigned. _"Oh," _she adds, _"keep the second weekend in December free. We want to have an engagement party. You won't have started work by then, will you?"_

"No, not until after Christmas. I can be there."

"_Good," _she says. _"Then I guess we'll try and be there sometime over next weekend."_

"Good," I say. "Then _you_ can talk Mom down from the massive meringues that she is cutting out of _Bride Today."_

Jane puts the phone down on me. Clearly she doesn't find it as funny as I do.

* * *

I have never understood the kind of people who like to exercise on Thanksgiving. The kind who immediately after eating a tiny portion of food, leap onto their treadmill. The kind who tot up their calorie intake, mid-pumpkin pie. I, and my sisters, have never been those kinds of people. We believe in eating, then vegetating, normally watching _Home for the Holidays. _Or _Miracle on 34__th__ Street. _Very occasionally, _Pieces of April_, but only if Jane has some hideous threat over all of us, like the year that she knew that the dogs had in fact, not 'accidentally' got to Mom's experimental pumpkin and banana pie. We had. So, whilst we all find exercise deplorable, I do feel sorry for Charlie when he utters the words 'does anyone want a walk?' like, half an hour after we had finished cleaning up dinner. Even Jane laughs. In his face.

"Oh, no, honey," she says, then waltzes off into the front room.

He stands in the kitchen, dish rag still in hand, looking a little lost. George stands too, having also been unceremoniously abandoned by Lydia.

"I could do with stretching my legs. Walking off some of this turkey."

Charlie smiles at him in brotherly solidarity. "Hey, thanks. Anyone else want to come?"

"No."

Kit, Mom and I follow Jane and Lydia's path to the fire and the TV. That is, until Dad stands up and says "sure. I'll come with you boys."

We freeze. "What, Daddy?" I ask. "You're going too?"

"What's taking so long?" asks Jane, reappearing in the doorway. "We've got the DVD set up and everything."

"Dad is taking George and Charlie for a walk."

Jane gets this look of abject fear in her eyes. "Why?" she asks.

Now, to anyone else, this would seem an over-reaction. A needlessly fearful response. However, we who know our father know two very clear facts about him:

1) he does not go for long walks after massive meals. In fact, he was the one who encouraged the vegetating in the first place. I think it was designed to discourage our wanting to play board games or, heaven forbid, team games, when all he wanted to do was snore in front of the fire. That, and:

2) he is, or at least used to be, an absolute menace to any boys we ever brought home. Prom dates were interrogated. School project partners were forced to sit just so far away that we could barely communicate. He would just happen to be cleaning his gun. Or exercising the dog who could feign rabies. He was, and, no doubt, is, a nightmare.

Lydia turns up behind Jane. "Seriously" she says. "I'm going to turn on _Miracle On 34__th__ Street_ and not wait for any of you losers."

"Dad's taking George and Charlie for a walk," says Jane.

"What, now?" Lydia turns wide eyed to Mom. She thought she had got off lightly. Dad was thrown a massive curve ball in his normal terrorising, what with Lydia eloping, and never really cornered George. Now, however, he appears to be double teaming it, a two for one special with Charlie and George, cut down to size, all at once.

"Come on," says Dad, predictably picks up his shot gun from where none of us had noticed it, behind the door, slings it over his shoulder, then ambles out, the dogs at his heels.

Charlie shoots Jane a look of mild apprehension, George to Lydia one of fear that these last few months are going to catch up with him, and then they follow him out.

"Should we go too?" asks Jane, watching as they shrug on jackets and walk off across the fields, both guys trying, and failing, to vault the fence as easily and quickly as Dad. "Oh, Charlie," Jane mutters, and stands still, watching through the glass in the door, arms wrapped round herself.

"He's not going to shoot them, is he?" asks Lydia, joining Jane at the window. For once, she doesn't sound quite so sure of herself.

"I reckon it'll involve Dad showing his shooting prowess, balancing an apple on Charlie's head…"

"MARY!"

Jane whips round from her vigil at the window and fixes Mary with an almighty glare.

"Or," says Mary, looking a little scared, "not."

"Come on," says Mom, and leads the way into the front room. We settle around the fire, the opening frames of the film frozen on the screen.

"They'll be all right," I say, fighting a grin that is pulling at my mouth. Jane and Lydia both nod.

"Yeah, of course."

"I didn't really think otherwise."

"Glad you're not freaking out," says Kit, eyebrows raised. Mary snorts, then pretends that she didn't.

"Girls…" says Mom, warningly. "Let's just watch the film." She settles back with her knitting, and Lydia presses _play_. The room is filled with the festive chords of the opening music, and we too, settle down.

"Now Dylan McDermott," Mom says as his name comes up on screen. "He'd be a good match for any of you. Maybe you Janey, if your Father leaves Charlie dead in the bear cave."

We gape, open mouthed. Who ever knew? My Mom can pull off a joke.


	37. What more can they do to me?

**What more can they do to me?**

Cars flash by outside the window, but as we shoot north, hour upon hour of slightly stale air and somewhat cramped conditions, I don't notice, as I am too interested in my immediate neighbour. She talks animatedly, impatiently pushing brown curls out of her face as she types simultaneously. I can but marvel. In my day we did one thing at once, and probably none of them with such enthusiasm. She offers me a cookie out of a zip-lock bag, and I tell her about my honeymoon, at Martha's Vineyard. We discuss wars and books, how old films aren't necessarily better, but often are. We compare sites we've seen. Paris, Rome, the Grand Canyon, Niagara Falls. Emerson comes up, and she sighs in ecstasy. She asks my opinion on Browning and I too, sigh. Milton, we both like, but both do not understand. I urge her to give Bach a try. I know she'll like him. And then, out of no where, her phone rings (or what passes for a phone these days), she apologises and sighs with disgust at it, answers it, and the light goes out of her eyes.

* * *

_Friday_

The phone has rung so much in the last few days that I think I can hear it ringing constantly. Actually, it probably is. Selfless governors who lost their own races, offering their services in the cabinet. People who think that now is the time to kick start their political careers. People who would like to dust off political careers which have sunk into the mire. People who were buried by Josh Lyman eight years ago and are only just now resurfacing. They are on the phone to me constantly. Me, or Sam. Or Josh, who has sent me an email comprised of a long list of names ending with:

_If you don't give them jobs, they'll never leave me alone._

He appears to be enjoying this period of transition as much as we are. Somehow, amongst all the determination to not jinx the election by planning and looking ahead, I didn't actually see this happening. I never planned for actually getting this far. Now my head is full of how will we do, and what's going to happen? That, and a certain brunette who is pretty much the only person in the whole country whom I have not heard from. She is due to arrive in Washington today, for Charles and Jane's engagement party tonight. Talk about timing. The guy proposed just at the beginning of a relatively quieter period. The only quiet period, if you believe Josh. Despite the ringing (largely in my ears) it is actually pretty quiet right now. This early in the morning, not many people are in. Zimmerman attempted to make everyone rest up a bit before we plunge into administration, and encouraged shorter working hours, except, of course, I don't know what to do with myself right now. Between phones and Lizzie and a crazily mixed up body clock, it's better to work long and not go mad. This early however, might be a new low. I really do not need to be in the office at six AM. I take a deep draught of coffee, consider that this much caffeine is probably not good for me, also consider cutting back, but then see the sensible side, and drink some more. It is only resurfacing from my little caffeine induced inner monologue, that I realise that the ringing I can hear really _isn't_ in my head, and really _is_ a phone. Reasonably relieved, I make a long arm for the phone, nearly knock over my coffee, rebalance everything, then finally give a very suave and together "Uh…yeah?" into the phone.

"_I need to leave a message for a Mr. William Darcy."_

"Speaking."

"_Oh. Good. Mr Darcy, I'm afraid there was an accident last night. Charles Bingley was taken in to Georgetown University Hospital."_

I'm not sure that the ringing hasn't returned in my ears. "What?"

"_Mr Charles Bingley was taken in to Georgetown University Hospital."_

"Is he all right? What happened?"

"_He has sustained some injuries after a vehicular incident. He asked that you be notified."_

"Yeah." I take a deep breath. This kind of thing seems to squeeze the air from you. "Has his fiancée been notified?"

"_Can you tell me her name, sir?"_

"Jane Bennet."

A moment of typing and murmurs, then the woman reappears on the line. _"Sir, the young lady was injured with Mr Bingley. She too has been brought to the hospital."_

"How is she?"

"_I'm afraid I can't say."_

I lean back in my chair, and rub my neck. The headache that had lingered this morning is suddenly gone. It must be fight or flight, or something. "OK," I say, trying to take it all in. "Can I come and see them?"

"_Just Mr Bingley, I'm afraid, sir. He has, after all, asked for you, and his situation is not critical."_

"And Jane's is?"

She sighs. _"Please, sir, I can't say."_

I'm aware of doors opening and swinging shut as a few early birds arrive, amongst them, the President-elect. He swings over to my open door, and grins. "Will…" he begins, but stops, seeing my face.

"OK," I say into the phone. "Has her family been notified?"

"_I'm afraid…"_

"You can't say? Fine. Thank you."

I put down the phone, and swallow, hard. "Charles and Jane were in some kind of car accident last night. It doesn't sound like he's too bad, but I'm not sure about Jane."

His face drops from serious, to ashen. "Oh, hell," breathes Zimmerman and he lowers himself into the chair opposite mine. "What happened?"

"I don't know, sir. Some kind of accident."

Zimmerman rubs cold hands together, and nods. "You want to go and see him? Hell, I want to go and see him."

I breathe out a smile. "I need to make a phone call first. Check if her family know."

"OK," he says and stands up, slowly. "I'm going to go and check messages with Lucy, but you tell me the moment you have news."

"Yes sir."

He walks out, visibly less buoyant than when he walked in. I sigh, rub my neck with one hand, and begin scrolling through my contacts in my Blackberry, until I find the elusive _Bennets Farm_, put in more than a year ago, right before the fundraiser. I sigh again, then hit _Call._

"_Hello?"_

"Hi," I begin, only realising now that I've only met any of them, once. "Is this the Bennet's house?"

"_Yeah," _comes a low answer. _"Can I help with anything? I'm afraid farm business has reduced to a minimum for a few days."_

Best to jump in the deep end probably. "So you've heard about Jane?"

A pause. _"Yes. Who is this?"_

Fair point. I must sound like a crazy stalker. "Sorry, yes. Will Darcy? I ran the campaign for Charles? Came to the farm about fourteen months ago? I'm Charles and Jane's boss now?"

"_Right. Sorry. I remember you. Will." _A pause. _"Yeah, they called us about half an hour ago, or so?"_

"And how is she doing?"

The voice becomes shaky. Much more frail. _"They don't really know. She's in surgery, and they hope she'll make a full recovery."_

"OK" I say, automatically. "Are you guys coming up to Washington, or…?"

She sniffs and sighs. _"We can't right now. The guys Dad has to help on the farm are both indisposed, so he can't leave, and Mom's panicking right now. She says she won't go without him, and he says he can't, so she has all but had a nervous breakdown."_

"I'm sorry…"

She laughs a short laugh. _"It's not your fault. I'm going to have to stay here and keep an eye on everything. Try and convince Dad to let me run things for a few days, and take Mom. Mary's away in Mexico, but she's trying to get back, and Lizzie's already up there."_

I had totally forgotten, just in these last few moments. "Hell, she's travelling right now, isn't she?"

"_Yeah. Hopefully she'll get there soon."_

"OK," I say. "Does she know?"

"_Yeah."_

"And was she all right?"

"_No? None of us are."_

"Right. Sorry." Stupid, stupid, stupid. "Look, Kate, right?"

"_Kit. Near enough."_

"Kit. Write this number down I'm on now somewhere, and use it anytime, OK? I'm going to go and try and find out some more, and I'll try and keep you guys posted."

She sighs again. _"Thank you," _she says, quietly. _"Look after Lizzie, won't you? Jane said that you and her…well… look after her?"_

"I will," I say, before my head has even caught up. I'm not sure my heart didn't hot wire my mouth that time. "How are you doing?"

She pauses again. _"I'll be glad when Mary's back," _she says shakily, _"and we'll know better what's going on when someone has seen her."_

"Of course. OK, look. I'll get off the line in case Lizzie's trying to get through or something, but phone if you need anything, OK?"

"_Thanks," _she says. _"Bye."_

* * *

I walk into Zimmerman's office just in time to hear him say "…I don't know how bad…Will! What was the news?"

I'm used to giving orders, running the show, but suddenly it feels very hot with every eye on me. "Uh…" I stumble, then, "Charles is, I think, stable. They said he had some injuries, but didn't give me anything more specific. It's Jane who sounds worse. She's in surgery right now, or maybe just out, but they're not sure. They're hoping for a full recovery, but you know what that means…"

"Yeah," he says, roughing up his white hair until it stands up over his head. "And her family know?"

"I just talked to them. They're stuck where they are for a few days because of extenuating circumstances, but Lizzie was already on her way for the engagement party."

"Lizzie?" he asks. "She's Jane's sister…but isn't she…?" He clicks his fingers together as his brain ticks over. "OK," he says finally to the rest of the room. "We're done."

I wait as everyone else makes their way back to their respective desks. "Sir," I begin. "If it's not too much trouble I think I should go and check on Charles."

He gives me an unfathomable look, stands up, walks over to the door, closes it, then pushes me towards a chair. "William," he begins, sinking back into his own chair, "for a smart boy, you can be incredibly stupid sometimes."

"Sir?"

He smiles. "I don't want to see you back in here for the rest of the weekend."

"No, I…there's too much going on."

"Not so much that we can't do without your valuable assistance. You have hired an excellent workforce here. They can handle it."

"Really, sir, I don't think Charles is that bad, and…"

He leans forward and silences me with a penetrating look. "It is not Charles that you are worried about, is it."

It's not a question, so much as a statement. One, unfortunately, that I cannot answer.

"I don't want to see you back here until Monday, and I'd rather not see you then. You understand?"

"Yes sir."

"Tell Charlie that I'll be in to see them both as soon as I can clear the security."

"I will."

He smiles, and leans back. "Then go," he says gently, and with that I get up and walk out of his office.

* * *

I find her in the waiting area, bags unceremoniously shoved under the chairs. One foot rests on the end of the bag that wouldn't fit under the chair, the other curled underneath her. Both are bare save for socks, damp snow boots lying next to the bag. Her hair is a mess of curls, displaying the distinct look of having had hands raked through it several times. I make it right up to her without her seeing me.

"Lizzie?"

She looks up, and looks confused for a second.

"Do you mind if I sit?"

She smiles, ever so slightly, and shakes her head. "No," she says with a shrug. "It's fine." She worries the sleeves of her jumper, pulling free threads and picking at them.

"How is she?" I ask, lowering myself into the ominously creaky chair.

"In surgery again."

"Again?"

She takes a ragged breath. "She'd been under once for setting her leg or something, and had woken up just about as I got here, and I saw her and everything, but then she suddenly said that she felt really sick, and then passed out, so they whipped her back into surgery…some internal something or other."

She doesn't look up the whole time, instead, staring at her hands as she winds and unwinds a loose thread around her finger.

"What about Charles?"

She shakes her head slowly, not looking up. "I don't know."

"They won't let you see him?"

She turns to me, the exhaustion apparent in her face. "I haven't tried. I can't," she continues, a little defensive.

"You can't?" I repeat.

She sighs and shakes her head. "What if he was driving drunk, or was fighting with her? Or what if she was driving, crying because of something he had done? Or…I don't know," she trails off, wearily. "I just don't know what I'd say to him, especially if…" She swallows heavily, and does not finish the sentence.

"Me either," I find myself saying, and realise that it is entirely true. "Unfortunately I promised to pass on a message to Charles from the President Elect, so…" I stand up, slowly. "Can I get you anything while I'm off looking for him? Coffee? Tea? Some kind of terrifying convenience food?"

She sighs and smiles a little, rubbing her hands over her face. "I don't really know what I want right now," she says, and shrugs. "Thank you, though."

"That's OK," I say, and smile down at her. "I'll see you in a bit." Then I walk off down the corridor, and pray that it isn't all Charles' fault as now, knowing how haunted Lizzie looks, I'm not sure that I won't accidentally give him a few more injuries.


	38. A masterpiece of understatement

**So:**

**a) I'm getting a new computer any day now, and my internet is being upgraded at the same time, so my posting ability might disappear for a day or two. **

**b) You appear to be a little concerned over Jane, currently under the surgeon's knife. Fair dos. I'm glad you're so caught up in the story.**

**c) You also appear to be impatient for some Will/Lizzie action. Again, fair dos. **

**d) You got me past 200 reviews. You deserve another post.**

**e) I don't own _What's Up Doc? _I wish I did.**

* * *

**A masterpiece of understatement**

"You're not dead then."

For someone whom I considered to be a good friend, Will looks remarkably nonplussed at both a) my arm is encased in plaster, my face is one massive graze, I have cracked ribs, bruised muscles and large amounts of pain killers coursing around my blood and yet, b) as he says, I'm not dead.

"What?"

He rubs the back of his head, causing his hair to stand up on end, as always. He shakes his head, and walks into the room, before sitting down heavily in the plastic chair at the end of my bed. "You're not dead."

"Oh good. I thought I imagined the disappointment in your voice the first time but look, there it is again."

He raises an eyebrow at me.

"I was in a car crash, you know."

"Yes," he says, rubs his forehead, and sighs. "Sorry. I know. How are you doing?"

"Oh all right," I say. "I'm on massive amounts of pain killers. It's making me feel a bit woozy."

"That might account for the sarcasm."

"And the purple spots in front of my eyes," I say, blinking hard.

"What happened?" he asks, bluntly.

"Pleasantries over, then?"

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, fingers pressing against the edges of his eye sockets. "Charles, Lizzie is down stairs, fighting for some semblance of composure as she freaks out about her sister. I just want to…"

"What's happening with Jane?" I ask, panic rising in my throat. "I was told she came out of surgery safely."

"She did," he says, "but then passed out and was taken back in."

"WHAT?"

He sighs. "That's all I know, and all she appeared to know."

I lean back against the pillows, trapped in my bed my plaster casts and IV lines, feeling helpless.

"What happened?" he asks again, gentler this time.

"I don't entirely remember," I answer, truthfully. "We'd picked up the food for the party, and Jane was laughing at my Christmas music collection on my iPod, and then another car just got out of control on the ice, I think. We were fine one minute, and slammed into a tree, the next."

Will sighs and leans back. "There wasn't any fighting or crying or…you know?"

"Why would there?"

He shrugs. "Lizzie was worried that she'd have to kill you."

"Oh."

He sighs again, and rolls his head, easing his neck out. "OK," he says, and stands up. "I'm going to go and find out what's happening down stairs?"

It's a question. Not a statement. His eyebrows are raised, waiting for me to reply. "Oh, yeah, please."

"OK," he says again and pauses in the doorway. "Was Lizzie going to stay with Jane?"

"I…think so," I say, not entirely sure. My head is too full of Jane and operations and a future tossed up in the air like salad leaves to know any straight answers right now.

"OK," he says once more, smiles briefly, and leaves, shutting the door behind him.

* * *

"I didn't know what you'd want, but you looked cold, so…" He places on the coffee table in front of her a couple of lidded cups, before emptying out his pockets to reveal paper sachets of sugar, tiny plastic cups of milk, and a whole host of junk food. He smiles apologetically, and sits down next to her. "There's barely passable coffee," he says, gesturing, "not at all passable tea, and then your general, run of the mill vending machine junk."

Slowly, Lizzie uncurls stiff limbs, and reaches out for the coffee. "Thanks," she says, and sips it.

"Seriously, have something to eat," says Will, taking the tea, taking a sip, then pulling a face of disgust. "I bought all kinds of crap."

"Something to suit every palette," says Lizzie, quietly, tiredly.

He smiles. "Something like that." He pauses. "Was there any news?"

She shakes her head. "Nothing yet."

They slip into silence for a few minutes until a man emerges from behind the ominous double doors down the corridor, his white coat flapping in an official looking manner. "Miss Bennet?" he asks, surveying the clustered people waiting in the rows of plastic chairs. Nearly dropping her coffee, Lizzie moves to jump up.

"That's me," she says, as Will lifts her coffee out of hands, and out of danger of exploding on the floor.

"Miss Bennet?" he checks again. "Are you the sister?"

She nods. "Lizzie," she says, hands wringing.

"Lizzie," he repeats with a grandfatherly smile. "Your sister has sustained injuries that we would expect to see with this kind of accident and they are eminently treatable."

She frowns. "I'm sorry, I don't know…I really know what happened."

"Oh," he says, "well. I understand that another driver lost control of his car on the ice, and it hit your sister and her fiancée's car hard enough to plough them off course, onto much icier conditions, and into a tree."

"A tree?"

"I believe that they, and it, are going to be fine."

"It?"

"The tree."

Lizzie rubs her forehead with one hand. She pauses, bemused. "What?"

"So how is _Jane_ doing?" asks Will, getting up from his seat.

The doctor turns to him. "She's…you're Will Darcy!"

He smiles, somewhat insincerely. "Yes. How is Jane?"

"Oh, you ran a fabulous campaign. Can't wait until January."

"OK. And Jane?"

"Oh she'll be fine. We set her leg, and her arm in the first surgery, and then it turned out her spleen was ruptured so we repaired that as well."

"That's why she lost consciousness?" asks Lizzie in a very small voice.

"Yes," he says, matter-of-factly. "It was all very straight forward. She's still in recovery, but you'll be informed as soon as she's back in her room." He pats her shoulder and nods at Will. "Good to meet you Will," he says, and walks away, leaving Will shaking his head slowly.

Lizzie stays standing there for a few seconds, breathing heavily.

"Lizzie?" says Will. "Are you all right?"

She turns to him. "It wasn't Charlie's fault? It was another driver and the ice…?"

He shrugs. "That's how it sounds. Charlie didn't remember it entirely, but he did know that they had been laughing just before it happened."

She lets out a long breath. "OK," she says slowly. "I should go and phone my family."

Still standing in front of her in the gloomy waiting area, Will puts up a hand to wipe away the tears of relief on her cheeks. "OK," he says softly, and when she lets out another long breath and closes her eyes, more tears brimming against her lashes, he pulls her into his arms and holds her tight. "She's going to be all right," he murmurs against her hair and she nods against his shirt front.

"I know," she says thickly, and eventually pulls back, and smiles. "I really should phone them."

She pulls her boots back on and finds her phone, as Will sits back down and hands her the coffee.

"Thank you," she says, and smiles, a little brighter. One hand holding her phone, the other delivering sips of coffee, she wanders down the hall, the strains of "_Kit? She's going to be all right!"_ drifting back to Will.

* * *

It is only when Will is at the top of a short flight of stairs, unlocking a door, with my bags in a pile next to him, that I realise that a) I have no where to stay tonight (re: my sister, unconscious in the hospital) and b) this very well might be Will's house. With that in mind, c) did I ever tell him I had no where to stay, and whilst I'm at it, d) did he ever say, 'Lizzie, would you like to stay at my hilariously massive gothic mansion?' Except it is not all that massive, it's just a decent sized townhouse, and it only has a bit of that Victorian fancy thing going on, and right now, I'm teetering between nothing and everything being hilarious. It's a fine line when you haven't slept and have waded through tons of emotional trauma.

"You all right?" he asks as the door swings open.

"This is your house?"

He frowns a little with a look of vague bemusement. "I should hope so," he says, "otherwise I've just broken in very easily to some strangers house, and I have lost my own."

My head feels a little woolly. It's that unfortunate state when you're so tired that you no longer get jokes. "Your own what?"

He bites his lip, pushes my bags inside the door, then holds out a hand to me, as if I were a toddler. "Come on," he says. "I think you need some half decent food, and somewhere that doesn't smell like antiseptic."

"Where are we?" I ask, attempting to mask the fact that this short flight of stairs feels like a mountain.

He smiles.

"You know, because I think I may have fallen asleep in your car."

"Yeah," he says, as I reach the top of the stairs. "I think so too." He propels me in front of him into the house, and shuts the door, leaving us in a dark hallway, lit only by the street lights shining through the glass in the door. "George?" he calls, shrugs, then snaps on a light. He opens a door on my left, turns on a light, and pushes me in. "Sit down," he says. "I'll go and turn on the kettle and see where George is lurking."

"Oh, don't do anything on my account," I hear myself say, and remember that he has dragged me (not exactly kicking and screaming) to his house as what may amount to a massive favour. Damn it.

He grins. "It's not just for you." Then he disappears.

He gives me just enough time to get to that dopey, spaced out stage of tiredness, before returning with two steaming mugs, some kind of Tupperware jammed under his arm, and a piece of paper between his lips.

"Coffee, right?" he mumbles through the paper, and puts the drink down on the table next to me, puts his own down on a coffee table, hands me the box, and drops the paper next to his mug, before dropping to his knees in front of the fire place and poking the debris of a few days fires in the wood burner. In the time it takes him to get a good blaze going, I only just figure out how to open the Tupperware. Yes. _That_ dopey. He rocks back on his heels and fishes out a cookie from the box, then gets up to sit down in the other armchair by the fire. He smiles slowly whilst I contemplate the cookies.

"Can't chose?" he asks, sipping his tea.

"Too many choices when I'm this tired."

"Have one of the chocolate fudge nut ones. They're George's speciality."

Sometimes, someone being bossy is bliss. I obey, and follow his example, dunking it in my coffee. Feeling instantly revived, I take a second to prise off my boots, and curl up in the chair, then take another bite of cookie, and another sip of coffee.

"Better?" he asks, as I sigh my self evident reply.

"Mmm. Hey, where _is _George?"

Over his tea, he nods to the paper on the table. "She left a note. She's out getting dinner."

I pause. "Will, am I staying here tonight?"

"Unless you have somewhere you'd rather be."

I roll my eyes. "You never asked."

He shrugs. "You looked like you were barely up to understanding speech. You looked confused by 'hi'."

I grimace.

"I mean," he continues, "another time, I'll start a rousing conversation on the senate races if you like…"

"Fine," I say. "Thank you."

He raises his eyebrows. "For making your decisions?"

"For letting me stay here."

He smiles slowly. "Any time."

"So," I continue, "if George is out getting dinner, which I assume I am included in, unless you summarily starve you guests…"

"Yeah, we do."

"…then shouldn't you phone her and tell her that I'm here too, or do you guys just eat like massive dinosaurs?"

"Massive dinosaurs?"

I grimace again. "Shut up."

He grins and nods towards George's note again. "If you can decipher her illegible scrawl, you'll see that she already knew."

"She's a psychic?"

"Yeah," he deadpans.

"Will?"

He sighs and takes another drink from his mug. "I phoned her this afternoon to check that it was all right with her that you stayed."

"And was it?"

He gestures once again to the paper. "She's out buying ingredients."

I sigh, content for the moment, and sink back in this ludicrously comfortable chair. We sit in silence, gazing at the fire, and feeling snoozey, until the front door slams and a wave of freezing air wafts in.

"Hello?" calls a voice, and a second later George, looking pink cheeked and laden with bags, appears in the doorway. "Hey," she says, disappears for a second, then comes back, sans bags, and starts pulling off her gloves and coat. "Lizzie, I'm so sorry about your sister. How is she?"

"Doing better," I say, and feel the relief of that truth. "I mean, still bashed up but compared to, what, eight hours ago, she's looking a lot better."

"Good," she says and sits down, reaching for a cookie. "Now, I was thinking turkey sausage lasagne."

I hear myself groaning out loud. Will and George laugh.

"I think that was a yes," he says, and drains his tea. "Come on, I'll help you. We'll leave Lizzie snoring by the fire."

"No, it's fine, I'll help."

"No offence, but I don't want to be responsible for you falling asleep with a knife in your hand and, you know, slicing anything off, so you stay here and watch any of George's sad and sorry DVD collection."

"Hey," she says, standing up to go and make dinner. "I'll have you know that there are some classy, _classy _films there."

He gets up, stretches, and picks up the now empty mugs. "Yeah, OK. I have four words for you. _The Prince And Me_."

She follows him off into the kitchen, debating the various merits of various romantic comedies, and soon it is accompanied by the comforting sounds and smells of the construction of a turkey sausage lasagne.

* * *

Will, used to finding himself wide awake, momentarily panicking that he hasn't, in fact, balanced the budget, is not at all surprised to find himself seeing his alarm clock register two AM. However, he has not been having White House chief of staff anxiety dreams. He's not sure that he's been dreaming at all. He lies still in bed, listening to the silence. Except it isn't silent. Between the odd siren zipping through distant streets, and the odd creak and squeak that comes from living in an old house, he hears the unmistakeable hum of his old television, and a mumbling whisper, both coming from downstairs. Reasoning that even the worst criminals are unlikely to break in, just to watch late night poker, he pulls on comfortable old sweats over his boxers and finds his only just respectable college hoody, to stave off the cold night air. He manages to make it down the stairs in the dark without tripping (thank you patchy light through the front door) and pauses to hear slightly louder muffled mumblings through the living room door. Cautiously, he opens it, and finds Lizzie, looking up at him from her seat, huddled in the middle of the couch.

"Hey," she says, and smiles, awkwardly. "I didn't wake you up, did I?"

He scuffs into the room, closing the door behind him. She has put on a light in the corner, casting a hazy glow over the room. Otherwise, the corners are huddled in shadows. "No," he says, eventually, sitting down with a good space between them. "Couldn't sleep?"

She shrugs as well as a person can with their arms wrapped around their legs, knees drawn up to the chin. "Didn't appear to. I kept thinking about Jane."

"And sometimes it more tiring just lying there, so you got up and came down here."

She nods, flashing him a quick, tight smile. "Something like that."

He pauses. "They think she'll be all right."

"I know," she says. "It just doesn't stop my mind from wandering, imagining that she's not. That any minute I'm going to be called back in to, I don't know, say goodbye?" She glances down at her cell phone, resting on the edge of the coffee table, open. "Is that really dumb?"

Will smiles, and settles back in the cushions of the couch. "There's something very comforting about living in a near opposite time zone to your sister most of the year, just so when your mind races in the middle of the night, you can phone her."

"And not incur wrath by waking her up."

"Exactly."

They settle back and both watch the television screen for a few silent minutes. Then, "I recognise this."

Lizzie smiles again. "It's _What's Up Doc?._"

"Near the end, right?"

"Yeah, I think so."

They watch it together for a few minutes, until the flow of the story is interrupted by commercials.

Lizzie turns to Will, and bites her lip, suddenly hesitant. "Will, I never thanked you."

He turns from turning down the volume. "Sure you did."

"No, it was nothing…just an email, I…"

"I printed it out and carried it with me since then."

She stops. "What?"

Will leans back and shrugs, smiling. "I don't know. It certainly wasn't nothing. I think…I think it reminded me of something."

"What?" she practically whispers, her face a map of unspoken concerns

He smiles again. "That maybe it could work out. That maybe I should stop imagining the worst. That maybe I've got a lot more than just an expensive education and a chip on my shoulder."

She frowns. "Of course you've got more than that. You've got so much to give, and, I mean, you give it all."

He smiles.

"I've been so wrong."

A frown grazes his forehead. "No, you…"

She smiles, perturbed. "No, I have. Everything I said to you last Christmas was wrong. You acted in all our best interests and then took no credit. You tried to be honest and I smacked you down. I mean, seriously, Will. You've done so much for my family. I just…I'm ashamed of what I said."

He pauses, and turns properly to Lizzie, ignoring the film as it once again continues on screen. "_You_ were right," he says, "about everything. I might have tried to act in your best interests but it didn't work out like that, and I didn't do much to mend the fences I had broken. I ignored and chastised you, and then had the gall to be offended when rather than fall into my arms, you told me that you'd rather not spend a single minute longer with me."

"Oh, don't remind me." She winces.

"No, you were right. I was too full of myself and doing things alone to let anyone else in." He smiles at her, slowly. "When I think of all the things I could have had by now…" He pauses, and shrugs. "I feel like a massive idiot."

She smiles back at him, and almost imperceptibly, they move closer on the couch, until she is right next to him, his arm casually along the back of the cushions, neither touching the other, but closer. They smile, relieved at each other, and breaking away, Will turns the sound up on the television as Barbra Steisand tells the lady on the plane that she's a transfer student.

"I'm sorry Will," Lizzie says, quietly.

He glances down at her, and moves his arm to round her shoulders. "I'm sorry too."

The silence following their words is filled by Barbra Steisand again.

"_Let me tell you something. Love means never having to say you're sorry."_

Will glances down at Lizzie, and sees dark eyelashes sweeping her cheeks. Slowly, she leans more into Will as she falls asleep. He looks back up at the screen and silently mouths along with Ryan O'Neal.

"_That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard."_


	39. C'est la dreck

**Welcome to the penultimate chapter. Sorry it's a few days late- I was crazy busy. Thank you, yet again, to those who have read all the way through, those who only joined recently but pulled all nighters to catch up, and those who have got annoyed with it, but carried on. You are all extraordinary. A special thank you to my reviewers, LJ, and particularly **Kath267** who deserves a shout out. The rest of you, you know who you are. You've been awesome. **

**Oh, and those of you who whack your head against the wall every time I change perspective and don't tell you? Sorry. Just stick with it. There's a reward at the end. **

* * *

**C'est la dreck**

_Monday evening_

"Hey."

"Hmm?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"Maybe."

"What happened to my aunt?"

Her smile twitches into a grin. "I have no idea."

I feel a smile pull at the corners of my mouth. "Right."

* * *

_An hour earlier_

In all my years, I have never seen my Aunt Catherine in any state less than pristine. Never a speck of dust. Never a smudge of make up. Never the possibility that she displays actually human emotions. Certainly, definitely, never a hair out of place. And yet.

Her lips thin as her gaze becomes steelier. "I think we need to discuss this, William."

He smiles, broadly. "I don't."

I sit down on the stairs, also smiling benignly. He filled me in earlier. On everything.

"Georgiana…" Aunt Catherine begins.

"No, I'm with Will," I say, swallowing my innate eight-year-old fear of Aunt Kate.

She swells with anger. "But…she wouldn't even contemplate making a small promise to me."

"What promise?"

Will also raises his eyebrows, determinedly calm, infuriatingly dispassionate.

For once, Aunt K looks a little unsure. "To…to not tie herself to you in a…inappropriate fashion…"

"Inappropriate fashion?"

Will looks up at me. "I think she means with some kind of bondage equipment." He looks like the picture that Mum had of him, with Dad swinging him round, aged three. His smile was wide and exuberant then, completely abandoned. It's wider now.

"I did not!" she splutters.

"Huh."

She stops, defeated. She closes her eyes, and takes a deep breath as she reaches up to smooth her, frankly, messy hair. It's pretty much everywhere, damp and crazy looking. Her genteel pats at it are doing nothing. She takes another deep breath, and opens her eyes again. "I would advise you," she says, finally giving up on her hair, "to remove yourself as far as possible from that girl."

Will says nothing. He stands still, eyebrows raised, politely indifferent.

"Well," she says, when she at last gives up hope of his agreeing with her. "I will expect to see you at next year's Christmas party."

"Really?"

She ignores Will, and raises her eyebrows, inquiringly, at me.

"We'll try," I say, "although," I add as Will snorts, "Will'll be pretty busy by then."

He gives me a look.

"Very busy," I amend, "but I'm sure that if he can get there, he will." I give him a look right back. It's a two way street, buddy.

He sighs. "Of course," he says, and smiles, briefly, at Aunt K.

"Very well." She tightens her overcoat, slings her handbag further up her arm, and turns to leave. She pauses. "A…merry Christmas…" she says, haltingly.

"And to you."

She leaves in a swirl of freezing air, and a following vacuum of triumphant silence.

Finally, I break it. "Will?"

"Hmm?" He breaks what is clearly a deep train of thought to look up at me. "What?"

"What did you do with the stick?"

"What stick?"

"You know," I say. "The one that for, I don't know, six, seven years, has been rammed up your…"

I don't get any further, before I find myself upside down, and travelling, over his shoulder, towards the garden.

* * *

_Two hours earlier than that._

"I will only ask once more, Miss Bennet. Are you engaged to him?"

I swallow. My hands are shaking so much that I ball them into fists. This may not be the best plan. Now I am well armed to take her out. Innate stubbornness wills me to be vague. The desire to never see this woman again wins. "No," I finally say.

She breathes out a gusty breath. "And you would never let him suffer such a…" She tastes for the word. "Delusion," she finally manages, "as to entertain even the merest possibility of tying himself to you?"

I am speechless for maybe the second time in two years. Last time was when Will asked me to dance. I'd rather be back there right now than here. Any time. I take a second to watch the cars spin by, kicking up snow slush. "No," I finally hear myself say.

She looks stunned. It's nothing to how I feel.

"I beg your pardon?"

"No," I say again. "I don't know his heart, and I'm not sure that I even know mine right now, but I will certainly promise nothing to you."

She splutters. It's the first time that she has looked anything less than composed. I suppress a grin. "How dare you!"

I had kept calm until now. Just. But now? "You have dragged me out here in the freezing snow, lecturing me at a time when I least needed it. You never once inquired as to the health of my sister, despite the fact that you barged into her hospital room. You never once inquired as to my state, despite the fact that I'm in a strange city, trading on the kindness of friends, and coping with nearly losing my best friend. You know what? How dare _you_."

Her lips thin. She steps back. "Very well. I came here with the intentions of warning you, as a friend."

I laugh. She doesn't.

"I send no compliments to your family. After all of the stories of them I have heard, I can only hope that I have no cause to hear of them again." She gives the hospital a glance. "No doubt this was the most recent in a string of embarrassing incidents. Well." She ties the band of her jacket around her waist, cinching to a ridiculous degree. "This has been thoroughly disappointing." She swoops off, leaving me, hands shaking again. Almost without thinking, certainly without weighing the consequences, I do something very silly. And yet, very pleasing.

* * *

_Fifteen minutes earlier_

I feel like I've been run down. In truth, it turns out, that's pretty much what happened. Except, of course, I was in the car, not under it. I can see someone in the chair next to me, restlessly watching the television.

"Lizzie?" I croak out.

She turns from what appears to, appropriately, be _Grey's Anatomy_ and smiles. "Hey there," she says. "How are you doing?"

"Mmm," I manage. I'm not sure that I can articulate more comprehensively.

She smiles. "You done freaking me out?"

It makes me smile. "Just about."

"Good."

The sound of raised voices floats into the room. "I'm sorry Ma'am, but I cannot allow you in. It's only family right now…"

"Nonsense."

Lizzie pales, grimaces and groans. "Hell, no…" she murmurs.

"What's wrong?"

She gives me a look of apologetic sympathy. "A fate worse than death."

The door opens, to reveal a thin woman with the most impressively styled hair I've ever seen. It doesn't appear to move. I am immediately keenly aware that I haven't even seen my hair for several days. "Miss Bennet," the woman says, icily. Thankfully, she doesn't appear to be looking at me.

"Yes," says Lizzie, smirking ever so slightly.

"I'm sorry," says the nurse, "Miss De Bourgh, if you don't leave I will have to call security."

She rolls her eyes, not even looking at the nurse. "Young lady, I would advise against it."

"Really," she says, looking amused.

Miss De Bourgh spins around, hands on hips, hair still not moving, and says, "young lady, do you know who I am?"

Clearly thinking that she is heading towards a diatribe, the nurse rocks onto her other foot.

"Well, do you?"

"I'm afraid, Ma'am…"

She stands still. Her clothes look as if they are made of some space aged steel, there are so few creases or even, you know, dust particles. "My late husband paid for this entire ward. You don't think that I can go wherever I want in this, frankly, poorly maintained ward?"

The nurse still hasn't left. She appears to be leaking confidence. "That may be the case, but at least Miss Bennet needs to give permission for you to be here."

Lizzie frowns, and murmurs, "damn her and her buck passing."

"Well of course she gives permission. Miss Bennet and I are old friends."

Lizzie snorts. Out loud. Then she blushes as all three of us look at her. "Well…"

"You realise," Miss De Bourgh says, hair still not moving, dragon hands clasping a hideous and yet massively expensive bag, "that with one phone call, I can have you fired."

The nurse's confidence ebbs further. She pales. "Please Ma'am, it is not my call."

She scowls, then turns on Lizzie. "Perhaps you would be good enough to talk to me outside." It doesn't appear to be a question. She swoops out like a bat. Out of hell. The door closes, and Lizzie lets out a slow breath.

"What was that?"

She grimaces. "Will's aunt. Lady Catherine De Bourgh."

This is the most excitement I've had since I woke up. It turns out that it's exhausting. "She doesn't go by her title?" I ask, reasonably incomprehensibly as it is mid-yawn.

Lizzie stands up. "No," she says, smiling a little. "She does."

"But the nurse…" I say, sleep pulling at my eyelids.

"Yeah," she says, shrugging on her winter jacket. "I'd imagine she's facing a pay cut." She picks up her cell and wallet, and walks to the door.

"Where are you going?" I ask, quickly followed by another yawn.

Lizzie pauses, one hand on the door, and grimaces again. "She asked me to talk to her out side. For some reason, I'm going to."

I'm not sure in what order that I say "good luck", the door closes and I fall asleep, but they all happen pretty fast. And then I dream about my wedding. Again.

* * *

_Six hours earlier than that._

I am about to ring the doorbell, the front door opens, and out barrels a messy young woman, hair in her eyes, jeans worn, snow boots muddy. "Ouf…sorry!" she says, swerving just at the last minute. She sweeps her hair back out of her face, and her apologetic smile drops to something akin to a grimace. "Oh."

"Miss Bennet?"

"Mrs…Lady…De Bourgh."

I swallow the first three retorts that come to mind, and settle on the fourth. "Yes."

"Well," she says, pushing her hair away again, as it has fallen back in her eyes. "Sorry again. I need to be going." She walks down the stairs, and walks down the street, kicking up slush in front of her. Shaken, I turn back to the door. I take a deep breath, exhale, then calmly ring the bell.

Upon opening it William pauses, frowns briefly, and the smiles, not quite up to his eyes. "Aunt Catherine," he says, somewhat joylessly.

The air is continuing to be freeze. As it has the entire time from exiting my car until now. I look at him, pointedly. "Must I invite myself in?"

"Right. Yes." He opens the door further, then stands back to let me in. It is only as he closes the door that I realise that he should not be at home.

"What are you doing here?" I ask.

"It's my home." He looks a little confused.

I'm starting to loose patience, and the day has only really just begun. "Here in Washington. The very reason that I have come here is to find out why you and Georgiana were conspicuously absent from my Christmas party this weekend."

"Would you like a drink?" He ushers me into the living room, being infuriatingly unhelpful.

"William," I say, in what I hope is a warning tone.

"Coffee, tea?" he continues, hovering by the door, intent on leaving.

I sigh, and give in. For the moment. "Fine. Coffee."

He leaves me in silence for a few minutes whilst he clearly takes his time in the kitchen. However, after a hail of foot falls, Georgiana swings into the room, then practically skids to a halt. "Aunt Kate."

The girl looks like a startled fawn. "For pity sake child, I'm not some demon from hell. Come and welcome me properly."

She walks across the room, and kisses my cheek, before scuttling back to the door. "Is Will in the kitchen? I'll go and find him. I'll just be a…" Her voice is cut off as the kitchen door closes behind her, leaving me again in almost silence, broken only by furious murmured whisperings coming down the hall. Eventually, they reappear.

"You certainly took your time," I say, and accept the reasonably uncouth mug of coffee presented to me. I gave up on everyone else maintaining my high standards long ago. "Now will you sit down?"

Finally, William sits. Georgiana chooses the chair arm, closest to the door. I take a sip of the coffee, and try to imagine that it is pleasant. Even bearable. I give up.

"Your absence was embarrassing at the party. You know it is for your own benefit as for mine. Especially you Georgiana. A career in the arts has no certainty. You could at least meet one of the nice young men whom I employ."

"I'm sorry?" she says, with more than a look of her father about her.

William rests a hand on hers. "I'm sorry we weren't there Aunt Kate, but it has been quite a busy few days."

I raise an eyebrow. "Yes. I saw your 'guest'," I say. "No doubt you have been too busy _entertaining_ her."

"Her sister was injured," blurts out Georgiana. "We've looked after her, if that's what you mean."

Clearly she has more than just a look of her father.

I take a deep breath. "William, are you aware of her connections? Of the utter embarrassment that her family creates?"

He swallows, blinks, then smiles. "No."

"Well," I say, angry just the memory, "Bill Collins has been keeping me informed, especially now since the oldest sister is to be married to Charles Bingley? What ever is the world coming too?"

"They've been engaged ever since the election."

"Preposterous." I extricate my diary from my handbag, and leaf through the pages until I find Bill's most recent email, printed out. "And what is even worse," I say, fighting to keep control, "is that certain people seen to believe that you and Miss Bennet, out there, are soon also to be engaged."

William freezes, frowns just a little and then smiles again, politely. "Really Aunt?"

He is infuriating. Eleanor was always something of a closed book. He has clearly taken after her. "Yes," I practically spit, stop, regain control, and smile. "Would you have any idea about why Bill Collins seems to think that you and Miss Bennet are headed for nuptial bliss?"

He smiles. "I have certainly never proposed."

Of course he hadn't. I breathe. "Of course. It was ridiculous." I take another deep breath. "I shall be around all day, seeing business associates." I stand up, leaving the revolting mug of what passes for coffee in this house, and tie my jacket tight. "I imagine that Miss Bennet is visiting her sister at George Washington?"

William also stands. "Uh…" he says, "yes, but you're not going to…"

I stop and give him a stern look. "I have associates at the hospital William. I was merely wondering in case I should happen to see her."

He gives me a hard look.

"I shall call later on my way home."

"You needn't," he says, all too quickly.

"And yet I shall." I pick up my hand bag again, and walk back out to the hall, where, as no one is there to help me, I have to let myself out. Once in the car, I leaf through my diary again. Sometime between the meeting with Fulston and presentation at Gage Whitney, I can fit in another meeting. A somewhat urgent meeting. The impeccable Floyd-Darcy bloodline is, after all, at stake.

* * *

_Monday evening, nine and a quarter hours later_

A long weekend of combined new understanding, sincere help, and a lot of good cooking can often result in a sleepily contented silence. Will looks up from his paper, to see Georgiana laptop in hand, checking her emails, and Lizzie deep in a good book. He smiles, and sighs at such quiet contentment. Finally, he says, "hey," and Lizzie looks up slowly, one eye still on the book.

"Hmm?"

He puts down the paper. "Can I ask you something?"

She smiles and, with a finger in the right page, closes the book. "Maybe."

Will frowns a little, one hand rubbing his jaw. "What happened to my aunt?"

George looks up as she closes her laptop.

Lizzie's smile blossoms into a full on grin. "I have no idea," she says, all innocence.

Will begins to smile. "Right," he says, a look of sheer disbelief.

"You don't believe me?"

He shakes his head. "All I know is that this morning she was her usual pristine self, and this evening…"

"She wasn't," finishes George, standing up. "Was she a mess when you saw her?"

"No", says Lizzie. "At least, not at the beginning…" She looks away, trying not to grin quite so much.

"What happened?" presses George.

Lizzie looks up. "I may, possibly, just possibly," she qualifies, "as she walked away, have, possibly, thrown a snowball at her."

George shrieks. "NO! Lizzie, you fearless, fabulous…"

Will laughs. Properly laughs. "Oh," he exclaims, eyes full of amazement, "I love you."

The previous cacophony dies, and the silence yawns. Will flinches, and then looks away.


	40. I believe you dropped something

**OK, here it is. You have all been utterly, fantastically amazing. We still have an epilogue to go, but the story itself ends at the bottom of the page. Enjoy. **

* * *

**I believe you dropped something**

There are awkward silences and then there are awkward silences. This, is the latter.

"Well," says George, as she edges towards the door. "I think I'll go and make a drink." She has all but dived through the door before I hear myself say, "I'll help you," and I get up and follow her close behind. The moment the kitchen door closes, I lean back on it, and groan.

"You know I was trying to give you guys some space," George says as she dumps her laptop on the kitchen island unit.

"I know," I groan, heels of my hands pressed against my eyes.

"Because, you know, he just said a pretty big thing in there, and I thought you might need to, I don't know, respond in some way?"

"Yeah," I say, hands now totally covering my face.

"And much as I consider myself an excellent hostess, I wasn't going to make drinks for you. I was going to come out here, make myself a tea, and then hide in my bedroom for a while."

"Yeah."

I hear a gaping silence as she, no doubt, stares at me, hard, but finally I hear her sigh and the sounds of a kettle being filled. I open one eye.

"You're going to have to talk to him sometime. It was a big thing for him to say. I mean, I know he's said it before…"

"He told you?"

She leans against the counter. "Yeah."

I consider whacking my head against the door. I decide that it probably isn't the best plan that I've ever had. I shuffle over to the bar stools at the island and sit on one. "I nearly hit him that last time."

George smiles a little. "He deserved it."

"He said that?"

She smiles further. "He told me _everything_, including just how much of an ass he was." She starts assembling the required things needed for a pot of tea. Finally, breaking the silence, she says, "Lizzie, you know, he's changed. Since then, I mean. I think it was all you."

I look at her through my fingers.

"He was a miserable workaholic, completely fell for you, and then said and did some stupid things. I don't…" She pauses, a mug in hand as she stops midway through getting out the crockery. "I'm not telling you how you feel, or that you have to return his feelings, or even that he has still completely thought this through or anything…but he does not put himself on the line like this. He has barely given anyone a chance to get near him in years. It's been you that has broken down these walls. I'm just saying, maybe…give him a chance."

I sigh. "And don't break his heart."

She smiles and gets down the other two mugs. "Right."

A few minutes of silence later, George pushes two mugs of tea to me. "Talk to him." She picks up her own mug and walks out, shaking her head to herself.

Left alone I stare at the mugs for a few silent second. "Will," I murmur, rehearsing, "I'm…it's…I…" I hear my Dad's voice in my head, echoing back through all my stubborn moments and refusals to help. 'Lizzie sweet pea,' he'd say. 'Just do it.' Damn him and his Nike philosophy.

With a sigh which sounds a little more like a groan, I pick up the mugs and walk back through to the living room, to find Will poking the fire, rousing it back into life. He glances over his shoulder and smiles, then turns back to the flaming wood.

"Thanks," he says.

"Oh, it's fine," I say, lamely. "George made it."

I sit down and sip the tea. Finally, he sits down in one of the armchairs, and draws his tea to him, breathing in the steam for a second, eyes closed in bliss. "She makes a good cup," he says, and smiles again.

"Look," I say, addressing the massive elephant in the room. "I didn't react properly."

His mouth quirks into another smile. "I wasn't expecting you to leap into my arms. Then again," he says, with a rueful look, "I wasn't exactly expecting to say _anything_."

I breathe out. I hadn't really realised that I was holding it in. "We should talk about it though."

His smile drops a little. "We don't have to," he says quietly. "I don't want to torture a response out of you."

"Thumb screws?"

The dimples make a brief reappearance. They really can still make my stomach jump. "I seemed to remember that you were in favour of crushing your victims."

I frown briefly.

"You know," he says. "In the car? On the way to church, when we stayed over after the fundraiser?"

Right. Wow. He has a good memory. "How _is_ your concussion?"

He smiles a bit more, and hides it behind a sip of tea. "It's been making me act a bit differently recently." He looks away for a moment, down at the fire.

"I heard that it was the other behaviour that was out of character."

He shrugs. "Maybe."

I take a deep breath. "Can you promise me that that other Will won't make a reappearance?"

"What, the miserable up-tight one?" He looks straight at me and shrugs a little. "No."

I feel my shoulders drop in disappointment.

"I can't promise it, Lizzie, but…" He sighs, and smiles a little. "I'll do my damnedest to make it happen. I'd do anything to be even half worthy of you," he says with another rueful shrug.

I feel propelled out my seat and end up standing in front of him. He isn't looking at me. He appears to be studying our feet. I sit down on the edge of the coffee table. "Will," I say softly, a hand on his. He looks up, uncertainty in his eyes. "You were always this person, even when you were miserable and up-tight. You were always incredible, and…" I pause trying to find the words. His fingers curl around mine. "I was angry that you didn't act like I thought you should."

He nods a little, his other hand covering both of ours.

"Will, since then, you've been the most thoughtful, the most extraordinary…you really are the most worthy guy that I've ever met."

He smiles a little and I reach out to his face. He smiles more and leans in to my palm. "Tell me again," I say. "Tell me again what you said last Christmas."

His smiles grows. "What, that we're cut from different cloth and that your family is hard work?"

I pinch his ear. "No."

He laughs a real, rumbly laugh and finally says, "that I love you?"

I breathe out a breath a year long. "Yeah."

He readjusts his hold on my hand, and sits forward. "Well then. Lizzie, I need to be honest with you."

I laugh and reach to pinch him again. He ducks.

"But," he continues, suddenly serious, "I love you. Full on, no regrets, no caveats on family and friends, no unrealistic expectations. Just that."

"Well then," I say. "I guess that I should be honest too."

He smiles, and draws my hand up to his lips.

"I love you. I think I probably have ever since I dragged you out of that fundraiser to look at the stars."

His gaze shimmers, and he too lets out a deep breath, warm against my fingers.

"No regrets. No stupid stuff. No talk of not being worthy. All right?"

He smiles and says, "all right," then pulls me up and into his lap. He kisses me, briefly, then quite easily and naturally, I curl up, my head on his shoulder, hand in his, his arm around me. We stay like sleeping otters, gazing at the fire, safe and comfortable that just for now, everything is going to be all right. Softly, he murmurs, "_he who is in love is wise and is becoming wiser, sees newly every time he looks at the object beloved, drawing from it with his eyes and his mind whose virtues which it possesses_."

"Emerson?" I ask, my voice fuzzy with sleepy contentment.

"Emerson," he agrees, then holds me close as I fall asleep in his arms.

* * *

I could swear that I wasn't that badly injured, despite what I might let some think, and yet I'm starting to think that I was cracked on the head hard enough that I may have gone mad. The door closes, and I turn stiffly to smile at Jane, hoping to mask my insanity. She, however, is frowning. She knows. She knows I'm mad and is about to have me committed. She…

"Am I crazy, or were they holding hands?"

Thank God. "You saw it too?" I say. "_I _thought that _I _was mad."

She smiles. "You are, honey, but not about this."

"I had a concussion," I remind her. "You remember what happened to that Colin kid in that show?"

She smiles again, reasonably patronisingly. "Sweetheart, that Colin kid had been in a coma, had bone fragments removed from his brain stem, and only then went a little weird. You were unconscious for ten minutes, and even then they said you had a _mild_ concussion."

"Yeah, well, be nice to me."

She grins and pats my hand. "All right, as long as you stop watching teen dramas."

I laugh, despite it all. "Fine. So when did Will and Lizzie happen?"

She shrugs, then winces at she regrets it. "I don't know," she says, finally. "I thought that she hated him."

"I'm pretty sure that he has been head over heels for her for well over a year."

"Are you serious?" Her eyes are wide. "I thought it was just a passing moment of…I don't know. Madness."

"Nope. I mean, even the President elect knew enough to make him come here this whole weekend."

"He was here for you."

I smile. "I've barely seen him. He's been in a few times, but even then his mind has been entirely on other things. You know," I add, "had anything happened to you he was ready to reek vengeance on me, for Lizzie."

She smiles slowly. "That's sweet."

"No," I say. "He would have killed me."

"But for her."

"I would have been dead!"

"All right," she finally says, and threads her fingers through mine. "You know, nearly killing us both was quite a drastic way to get out of planning a wedding."

I grin, stand up even more stiffly, and climb onto the space that she has vacated, scooching over her bed. "You should know," I say, my good arm round her, "that I'd marry you even if we couldn't have a jazz band and white roses and red velvet cake and, you know…"

"I know," she murmurs, and she reaches up carefully to kiss me.

"And I'd go through with it even if you had the band just play Hilary Duff covers and had thirty bridesmaids."

"OK."

"And even if you made me wear pink. Like a really girly, Barbie pink."

"As opposed to manly pink."

"Yeah."

"OK," she says. "Good to know."

"Well. I'm just saying. I love you."

She smiles and kisses me again. "I love you too." She pauses, a hand on my face. "And I'm not going to make you wear pink."

"Oh, thank goodness. Wait, does that mean that you _are_ having Hilary Duff covers…?"

* * *

_Two weeks later_

The old Bennet's Farm house creaks with age, and the windows rattle against the chilly winds, but inside, it is snug and warm, largely, because it is packed with people. Exhausted, Rex climbs into bed after a long day of work on the farm, combined with sizing up potential family members, and extraneous Christmas chores.

"Ouf," he groans, tucking the sheets around him, then finally turns to his wife. "Hello," he says, and smiles and she rolls into him.

"So what do you think?" she asks, clearly having held it in all day so that her daughters wouldn't hear.

"Of what? Will?"

"Yeah," she says, " and his sister, and him with Lizzie, and…everything."

He shrugs. "I liked him back last year. I thought then that he'd be a good match for Lizzie."

"She hated him! I thought she still did until she asked if he could come for Christmas."

He laughs. "He's stubborn and fiery, but more than that, he's honest. He's Lizzie all over again." He considers for a second then says, "you know, it was him who sorted things out for Lyddie."

Fran leans back and frowns. "What are you talking about?"

He shrugs. "He was with Lizzie when she found out. He found them, he baled them out, and all on the understanding that they came home."

"I thought that they hated each other."

"You already said…"

She sighs. "Not _Lizzie_ and Will. George and Will."

He shrugs again. "He put it behind him. All for Lizzie."

They lie there in silence for a few minutes. "Is that then," asks Fran, "why George suddenly said that they'd go to his mother's for Christmas?"

"Because of Will being here?"

"Mmm."

"Maybe." Rex looks down on his wife. "I know we've made jokes about George as our dream son-in-law but you know, maybe he's really making an effort. For the rest of us, I mean."

"Maybe," she repeats. She curls up in Rex's arm. "You think he loves her?"

"Will?"

"Mmm."

He smiles against her hair. "I guess I'll find out tomorrow when I take him out for a walk."


	41. Epilogue, Part One

****

Thank you all, yet again. Really. And we haven't quite finished yet. After all, the only thing better than an epilogue? A two-part epilogue. Obviously.

* * *

**Epilogue, Part One: You ought to give me wedding rings**

"You know the chapel is licensed for weddings."

Will looks down from his perch on the fence railings into his sister's face. "What?"

"The chapel. Back home. The one in the woods."

"I know it. What I don't know is why you're telling me this."

She leans back against the fence and looks up at the blue sky. "Oh, you know. I just thought, this wedding is pretty and all. Beautiful even, but I'm not sure it's very you."

He snorts. "I'm not sure many men's weddings are very 'them'."

"You know what I mean."

He looks hard at her. "What you mean is _when_ _are you going to propose to Lizzie_."

She determinedly doesn't look at him, but smiles. "Took you long enough."

He sighs. "We've been together for six months. That's the same length of time it took me to figure out my iPod."

She turns, leaning still back on her elbows and gives him a look which only a sister can give. "You've been in love with her for way longer than six months."

He smiles a little.

"And," she continues, "she is not an iPod."

"Who isn't an iPod?"

Lizzie walks off the porch and down to the fence, having managed to remove the most painful of the hair pins and swapped her heels for flats. "I mean," she adds, "apart from most human beings."

"You," says Will, and he grins.

"Right, I'm off to find some food," says George, "and leave you love birds in peace." She kisses Lizzie's cheek, moves away and then pauses. "Think about it, Will," she says, with a stern, steely look.

He smiles. "I have been, for a while."

She grins, and walks off back to the barn, now decorated for the wedding reception, leaving Lizzie alone with Will.

"What was that about?"

He takes her handbag for her, exclaiming at the extraordinary weight of the thing as she climbs up next to him. He raises an eyebrow. "If you mother was here she'd be warning you about your dress."

She waves it off. "What was it about?"

"You mostly."

She grins, and leans in to kiss him. "Well, isn't everything?"

His ability to scoff is hampered by her lips against his, so he smiles instead. "Just about," he says, finally. "Are your maid of honour duties done now?"

"Mmm," she says, leaning in, her head tucked against his shirt.

"You want to go for a walk?"

She sighs, and looks up at him. "Sadly, your best man duties aren't done. You've still got speeches to makes."

"Speeches?" he asks. "Plural?"

"Maybe one. Depends how good it is."

"It's good," he says. "I quote Dr Seuss."

She hits him in the chest. "You do not."

"I really do. The President helped me."

She looks up at him, shaking her head.

"What?" he asks. "The only other people I could ask were you, and you already had too much to do, or Charlie."

"And over me, who had too much to do, you chose the President."

"Yes," he grins winningly. "Now how many points do I get for that?"

"Some."

The buzz of voices increases as more people arrive back from the wedding ceremony and start to wander around the Bennets' grounds.

"We should probably go and mingle."

"Before Jane kills us?"

Lizzie smiles. "Something like that."

He jumps down, and lifts her down to follow. "More points, right? That was gentlemanly."

She reaches up and kisses him. "For every point you earn, you lose two for reminding me."

He laughs, and kisses her back. "Fine," he says. "Go for a walk later?"

"Sure."

Hand in hand, they wander back to the barn, to ready themselves for Will's speech.

* * *

"Now if I remember this correctly," says Will, putting down his champagne flute having toasted the happy couple, "this is the site of their first dance and, if Charles is to be believed, the night that he fell for his lovely wife."

A muted round of murmurs circles the room. Lizzie and Kit share a look of nausea, not unnoticed by Will.

"So," he continues, nevertheless, "I am requested to invite the newest Mr and Mrs Bingley onto the floor for their first dance as a married couple."

The rest of the room applauses as the happy couple take to the centre of the room. Thankfully, it blocks out Lizzie's murmured "what a sap," as well as her resultant shriek as Will, on the pretext of kissing her, blows a raspberry on her neck, and just covers Kit's following shriek as, whilst shrieking, Lizzie had also flailed and kicked her. Hard. In the shin. The entire table descends into less than mature behaviour, but most eyes are trained on Jane and Charlie, so only a few notice, and most don't care. Finally, as couples rise to join them, dancing to the music of the band, Lizzie and Will are left alone at the table. She wipes her neck, disgusted. "Just so you know, your points have now a massive minus sign in front of them."

He grins and shrugs. "Not so sappy now."

A smile tugs at her mouth, and she turns away to watch the dancing to hide it. Will sighs and takes a long drink from the bottle in front of him. Lizzie looks back at him, over her shoulder.

"You all right?" she asks, as he leans his head against the glass of the bottle.

"Mmm." He puts the bottle down and looks at the label. "Would you look at that."

"Same stuff."

He smiles, slowly and nods. "Your Grandma Bennet sure knew how to make lemonade."

Lizzie gives him an appraising look. "You have a headache?"

"Just a little one."

She leans in. "You know, dancing is a great cure for headaches." She smiles, winningly. "You want to?"

Dredging his mind, the first time he met her comes screaming back. "Not desperately," he says, smirking ever so slightly.

She leans in further, lips inches from his. "Yeah, this _Groundhog Day_ thing isn't going to work, you know, because much as your saying _that_ started a whole chain of fighting and more fighting and somewhere along the line," lips now a hairs breadth away, "kissing, I'm not going back to the beginning. We, William Darcy, are breaking the vicious circle."

"Really?" he asks, a sardonic smile on his face. "And how do you intend to br…"

She kisses him, effectively breaking the circle. Or at least, stopping him from talking.

"Huh," he says, a few seconds later. "That's how."

"Yes." She gathers up her bag and slings it over her shoulder, whacking Will in the arm with it as it swings.

"OW! Seriously, how much stuff do you carry in there?"

She smiles sweetly, and picks up her cardigan and his drink. "Come on." In a movement very much like the first time they met, she leads him out of the barn, and out into the twilight. This time, he manages to stop before barrelling into the fence.

"You going to sit me on there and grill me again?" he asks, lifting the lemonade out of her hands.

She gives him her handbag as well for a second, and shrugs on the cardigan, before taking the bag back. "No. Vicious circle, Will. Remember?"

"Right. And you're breaking it?"

"Exactly."

"And how are you going to do that, aside from just kissing me to shut me up?"

She shrugs. "Until I find a more effective method…"

He raises his hands. "Hey, I'm not complaining."

She smiles, and raises a hand to his face, smoothing the hair back. "How's the headache?"

His eyes had closed at her touch. They open again, slowly. "What headache?"

She smiles again, and runs her hand down, into his hand. Slowly, they walk along the fence together in the dim light, bats wheeling over head, and crickets chirruping. Away from the lights and sounds of the barn, up past the house, they arrive at the crest of the hill, the pond below them, and standing amongst the trees the silence is only broken by the hum of insects.

"I need to say something," says Will, stopping abruptly. Lizzie, still walking for a second longer, swings out past him, their hands still entwined. She stops and frowns.

"OK," she says, slowly.

"I don't know how to say this, and I know we've been taking things slowly and all…" He stops and sighs. "I just…"

"Wait," says Lizzie. "I think I need to say something first."

A horrible sinking feeling settles in Will's stomach, like he has just put in motion something much worse than another _Groundhog Day_, but a completely different story. The one where Lizzie ends up with someone else. He steps back and drops her hand.

She contemplates him for a moment. "Will, I've never been as happy as I have been these last six months. You've been extraordinary."

He nearly scoffs. Of course. But now…the _but_.

"You've done so much for me, and my family, and it sometimes feels a bit overwhelming, like I owe you this massive debt…"

"You owe me nothing," he breaks in. "I did it all for you." He looks at her keenly, trying to make her understand. "I love you, Lizzie."

She steps forward, and takes his hands. She's going to break up with him, she's going to never see him again, and all because he stuck his oar in and did all that stupid stuff for her. If only he hadn't. If only… "And I love you. Which is why," she says, standing even closer, "the very least that I can do, after everything, is propose to you."

William Darcy's world tilts. He holds onto Lizzie's hands to stop himself from falling off. She steps forward, and looks up at him, smiling, shadowed with apprehension. "Will?"

He finds his voice, somewhere in his shoes. "You're not breaking up with me?"

"What on earth for?"

Her bafflement sends a jolt through him. Somehow, it pulls his world back into order. "And you want to marry me?"

She smiles. Then she reaches into her abnormally heavy handbag, and pulls out a box. "Here," she says, and gives it to him.

It's not the strap, or the other dials, or the satisfying whirring click of many hands moving at different speeds, or even the inscription which he finds on the back and runs his thumb over. It's the fact that it looks a lot like the one his father had which makes it hard to breathe. That, and the implications of the watch which he now holds in his hand.

"What do you think?" asks Lizzie, concern lacing her voice. "I mean, I looked at thousands of them. Everything from yellow plastic ones with calculators in to ones that could probably land you on the moon. There was even this one which had the Tasmanian Devil on it? You know? It kind of jumped out on a spring and bounced about…"

He takes a step closer and pulls her to him in a bone crushing hug. Arms around her, the watch held firm in one hand, his lips against her hair, he feels her relax, and snake her arms around his waist. They stand there together, silent, arms around each other, until Lizzie leans back a little.

"What do you think?" she asks again, still with a thread of apprehension through her words. "I know it's not the done thing for the girl to propose. And you might not think it's a great idea. I mean, we've only been together for six months. I'd understand if you were a bit uncertain…" She trails off as he drops his embrace, and steps back. "Will?"

He snaps the watch box closed and carefully places it on the ground, before reaching inside his suit jacket. He pulls out another box, smaller this time, and hands it to her.

"Is this what I think it is?" Slowly, she opens it, and then bites her lip. "Oh, Will."

He moves back towards her. "It was my Grandmother's. It was left to me by my parents."

She lifts the ring out of the box and stares at it, speechless.

"George has Mom's engagement ring, which is fancier, I guess, but I liked this one more any way. I thought it was more you."

She looks up at him, and nods, still speechless. He takes the ring from her, then takes a deep breath.

"Lizzie, will you marry me?"

She blinks away a tear, and smiles. "Will you marry me?"

He grins. "Yes."

She nods again. "Yes," she repeats, and he slips the ring onto her finger. Then he pulls her into his arms again, and holds her tight. Eventually, the night air steals in, and, feeling the chill, they walk slowly back to the house, both smiling at the secret they have to keep until Jane is safely off on honeymoon.


	42. Epilogue, Part Two

**Epilogue, Part Two: ****I love it when you give me things**

_Seven years and three months later_

To: vicepresident at whitehouse

From: ebethbnet

Subject: The budget

Sam,

I have an idea. Find somewhere in the budget for some kind of levering device for pregnant ladies to get out of chairs. All this heaving and grunting is embarrassing.

Lizzie

* * *

To: ebethbnet

From: vicepresident at whitehouse

Subject: The budget

Lizzie,

I'm not sure we have enough for pencils right now, let alone glorified shoe horns.

Sam

* * *

To: vicepresident at whitehouse

From: ebethbnet

Subject: The budget

Sam,

What about cutting the armed forces polish budget? They can afford to look grubby for a few weeks to enable me to stop my fantastic impersonation of a beached whale. I'll write to them if you like.

Lizzie

* * *

To: ebethbnet

From: vicepresident at whitehouse

Subject: The budget

Lizzie,

Thanks, but no thanks. Save your pitches for Big Block of Cheese Day. I have no doubt that your husband still holds those, right? Now stop distracting me. I'm supposed to be looking at my speech for tomorrow. Not entertaining you.

Sam

* * *

To: willdarcy at whitehouse

From: ebethbnet

Subject: Your crummy candidate

Will,

Sam won't put one little thing that I want in the budget. Threaten him with quitting, would you?

Love, L xx

* * *

To: ebethbnet

From: willdarcy at whitehouse

Subject: You have too much time on your hands

Lizzie,

No.

Will

xxx

* * *

To: willdarcy at whitehouse

From: ebethbnet

Subject: You are going down

What do you mean, _No_? And here I am, laid up at home, bored out of my mind because you a) sent me to the doctor, b) agreed when he forced me into bed rest, then c) told CJ that I was taking early maternity leave, and d) somehow used your FBI friends to stop my computer from emailing work, therefore leaving me e) BORED OUT OF MY MIND. I tried bating Sam, but he's not playing along. Clearly Ainsley has sent him similarly stupid emails over the years. He ignored me. The dastardly fool. Now what are you doing agreeing to be his chief of staff? And you seriously need to lift my injunction on emailing work. Right now I'm resorting to distracting the President Elect, and that's going to help no one. Sort it out.

The wife xxx

* * *

To: ebethbnet

From: willdarcy at whitehouse

Subject: The husband

1) You're the size of a whale, you still have a few weeks to go and you fainted the other day. Stop complaining, and turn on the TV. If nothing else you can watch Sesame Street with Griff. I know how much you like the Muppets.

2) Stop bating Sam. He's only just won the election. Had he not, I very soon would not have had a job. Now there's a sobering thought.

3) I never set the FBI on you. It was all CJ. She can read you like a book, and knew that you'd try and work. So stop that. The most taxing your brain needs right now is sorting shapes and learning to share with Elmo.

4) I'm trying to organise matters of great governmental importance here. It doesn't help having emails flying in every five minutes either from you, or complaining _about_ you.

5) Now stop typing. I know the laptop is broken therefore you are sitting at the computer, therefore YOU ARE NOT RESTING. We have a perfectly serviceable couch. Use it.

Love, W x

* * *

To: willdarcy at whitehouse

From: ebethbnet

Subject: My husband

1) Griff told me to tell you that the Sesame Street gang are not the same as the Muppets, no matter how much he or his mother (alias, me) enjoys both of them. No lie. Except I'm pretty sure that he doesn't know the word 'alias'.

2) He won. He's got three months off now. Kind of. Plenty of time for chatting when you think about it.

3) I'd appreciate you not telling me not to tax my brain. Except that number of negatives has confused me so much that maybe you were right…damn it.

4) You don't have to read anyone else's emails. Just mine. I am, after all, gestating the second of your offspring. Be grateful.

5) I found the wireless keyboard so am lounging in the armchair with my feet up, squinting across the obscene distance to the computer. I may be resting, but I'm going to ruin my eyes. Also, I'm perfectly aware of our perfectly serviceable couch. It is, after all, the site of the reason for all this bed rest nonsense if you know what I mean.

Love, L & G xx

* * *

To: ebethbnet

From: willdarcy at whitehouse

Subject: Wife

I am grateful, sweetheart. Really, really grateful. And given half a chance, despite all of your crazy, I would just read your emails. And in fact, would come home to you and Griff and hang out with the Sesame Street Gang. You know I would. But right now, I've got a whole pile of things on my desk, and I'd really like to at least swing by before Griff's in bed, and right now, I'm not sure that'll happen so please, please, could you give the emailing a break?

All my love, xxx

* * *

To: willdarcy at whitehouse

From: ebethbnet

Subject: Wife

I was going to say yes, except I think that I may be in labor. Could you come home any time soon?

L x

* * *

_Three months later_

Charlie walks out of his office, rolling his shoulders, and easing out his neck.

"Where are you going?"

He grins, as rueful as ever. "Just for a walk. It's amazing how that office can make my back seize."

"You might need to adjust your chair."

His neck makes a crunching sound and he winces. "Yeah."

Will shakes his head slowly. "You look good."

"I'm married," says Charlie, apologetically.

"I meant…"

He grins. "I know. And I know I do, right?"

"Your wife knows how to pick a good suit."

Charlie frowns. "Why would you think that I didn't pick it?"

Will's mouth twitches into a smile. "I distinctly remember a white suit that first weekend I met you. You may appear conservative on the surface but you, my friend, are a raging John Travolta underneath."

"A raging John Travolta?"

He shrugs. "Shut up. You know what I mean."

"Yeah." He fingers his bow tie. "Still can't do these though."

"Lizzie can."

Charlie raises an eyebrow. "That's great, Will. I can list my wife's accomplishments too. Listen…"

Will gives him a look. "She's here."

"My favourite sister-in-law? In the house?"

"Oh, I'm so telling the others that Lizzie's your favourite. Lydia's going to kick your ass."

Charlie pales. "Damn. It's Mary I'm worried about."

Will bats a hand, dismissively. "She's in a whole other continent, plus, I've always liked her. No, it's Lydia who you need to watch."

"Maybe you could just not tell them?"

"Maybe you could throw next Christmas's charades?"

Charlie's eyes narrow. "Nothing is worth that."

Will shrugs. "Suit yourself."

Charlie narrows his eyes further, before snorting with laughter. "Fine." He gets up off the desk edge, just in time to scoop up the little boy who has just crawled between them, intently pushing a plastic truck ahead of him. "Hey, Griffy boy," he says, and turns the three year old upside-down for good measure.

He shrieks, and laughs uproariously.

"You ready to surrender?"

"Yes!" he squeaks between giggles.

"What do you say?"

"Uncle Charlie knows more about poti…poli…potilics, than Daddy."

"Hey!"

Charlie grins. "That's right." Then he turns Griff up the right way, then high fives him. "Good work."

"Stop corrupting my son," says Will, and he holds out his hands to his son. Immediately, Griff leaps joyfully and, with Will's arms round him, leans back to see his father's face.

"Will Uncle Rich play trucks?" he asks, a frown creasing his forehead.

Will smiles. "I'm sure if you ask nicely."

He nods and yawns, then settles his head on Will's shoulder.

"And if you're still awake," murmurs Will.

"I will," his little voice protests.

Charlie laughs. "All right. I need to get a few things done before Jane arrives. I'll see you later, and _you,"_ he adds, a hand on Griff's curls, "on Sunday."

He blinks heavily, and nods. "Will Cal and Jeffy be there?" he asks sleepily, tired words sliding into each other.

"Of course," says his uncle. "They were getting their cars ready for Sunday when I left this morning."

Griff nods again, eyes more closed than open.

Charlie grins, and heads off down the corridor, whistling. Slowly, Will manages to bend down and pick up the truck, now discarded on the floor, before carrying his son back to his office. Opening the door, he finds that Griff is not the only one asleep. Her dress all ready for the evening, her curls now squashed a little, Lizzie lies on Will's office couch, their twelve week old daughter asleep, curled up on her chest. He smiles, and feels for the thousandth time how lucky he is, then, having carefully deposited Griff in the armchair, he kneels down next to Lizzie.

"Hey," he says softly, a hand on her face. She turns into it, and sighs, before opening her eyes.

"Hi," she says, and smiles. "Sorry, I didn't mean to fall asleep…"

Will smiles back. "I think it's allowed when you don't get much sleep at night."

"Mmm."

"You all right?"

She nods, sleepily. "Fine. It's just very cosy in here."

Will nods, then notices that his daughter's eyes have fluttered open. "Here," he says, and picks her up, cradling her against his chest, her round little head nuzzling into the crook of his neck. Lizzie watches father and daughter for a second, then sits up.

"My hair…" she mutters, and smooths it out.

"It's fine."

She gives him a withering look. "You're a boy. You just throw on a tux and walk out the door."

He grins, apologetically.

"What time is Rich coming?"

He gets up slowly. "In about twenty minutes?" Then he sits down on the couch.

She nods. "Fine." Using the light's reflection in the glass of a framed picture, she fixes her hair, then sits back down again, next to Will. She watches Will and their daughter for a moment, then cautiously asks, "are you happy?"

After six years of marriage, the crushing fears of being left alone in the world have shifted. He may still fear their travel, every doctor's appointment, every phone call when they aren't at arm's reach, but the deep seated, gut twisting fears that Lizzie will leave him, are gone. Utterly and completely. "Yes," he says, content.

She nods slowly. "President Zimmerman sent us a gift for Bethan today."

Will raises his eyebrows. "Complete Dr Seuss?"

She laughs, softly. "Why he thinks that they can't share Griff's is a mystery…"

Will smiles, and glances over at Griff as he stirs for a second. He settles, and Will turns back to Lizzie.

"Anyway," says Lizzie, "he wrote something on the label."

"Yeah?"

She picks up the square of card off the table next to her. "_You know you're in love when you can't fall asleep," _she reads, "_because reality is finally better than your dreams."_

Will's mouth twitches. "Dr Seuss clearly never had children. I'd say bed-wetting, night time feeds and dinosaurs in the wardrobe are the actual reason that _we_ don't sleep."

Lizzie gives him a long, and withering look.

He grins. "That," he amends, "or that my dreams don't come close to all this."

Her frown begins to clear. "Better," she says.

"Nowhere near," he murmurs, leaning towards her.

"OK."

"_I meant what I said, and I said what I meant_…"

Lizzie laughs and kisses him.

* * *

**Holy baloney, I didn't think we'd ever get here! I know that it certainly wouldn't have happened were it not for you guys. Your reviewing, cheerleading, and general enthusiasm has kept me going, and I really can't thank you enough. I particularly need to thank LJ for her unending support and unerring ability to make me laugh at myself. Also, for naming Jane and Charlie's twins, and for not minding when I put my foot down over calling a son of theirs Chandler. Chandler Bingley. Yes. **

**I really should reiterate that **_**Pride and Prejudice, The West Wing **_**and **_**What's Up Doc? **_**are all brilliant, and certainly no creation of mine, and if you haven't experienced them all, then you should go immerse yourself in them now as the weather starts to turn in. If you were wondering, most of the chapter titles came from **_**What's Up Doc? **_**with a few from **_**Bringing Up Baby**_**, and a couple from a few songs (**_**Back to Tennessee **_**and **_**The Book of Love**_**). There were several **_**WUD? **_**quotes that I wanted to use, one being **_**"Who do you think they'll arrest? The girl in the tub or the guy with his pants down?",**_** but they never seemed to fit. Shame. **

**As for the future, aside from basking in the smug satisfaction of having finished writing something, I have some more writing planned, including a complete Austen series. Yes. Crazy, I know. Especially as they're all going to be set in roughly the same universe so that they can cross over. At least it won't be as confusing and mammoth-a-task as my original plan was which was a simultaneous six way crossover. Yep. Not going to happen. Not yet, anyway.**

**So. Thank you again. So much. Please come back again when I start posting the next one. I will look forward to seeing you all again. **

**Many thanks to you all. FP**


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